iSi 


UR.  J.\MIES0N 


GIFT  OF 


We  would  be  pleased  also  to  have 
you  examine  this  Review  Copy  with  a 
view  to  using  it  SERIALLY  in  your  paper. 

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Yours  very  truly, 
R.    F.    FENNO   &   COMPANY. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  GOD, 


IN  THE 

SHADOW  OF  GOD 


BY 

GUY  ARTHUR  JAMIESON 

author  of 

"At  the  Edge  of  the  Yellow  Sky" 

Etc.,  Etc. 


R.  F.  Fenno  &  Company 

18  East  17th  Street,  New  York 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


Jn  the  ShadoiJu  of  God 


/>■ 


To 
ALFRED  L.  CLARK. 


304036 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  GOD- 


CHAPTER  I. 

Over  the  face  of  Devil's  Backbone  hung  a  low, 
far-reaching  blanket  of  dun  clouds,  making  prema- 
turely somber  the  close  of  the  October  day.  One  sud- 
denly set  down  here  at  this  hour  might  easily  imag- 
ine he  had  come  to  the  top  of  the  world.  The  narrow 
neck  of  land  rose  sheer  from  encompassing  shadows ; 
no  sign  of  life  or  habitation  met  the  eye.  The  sky- 
line melted  vaguely  into  the  lower  obscurity,  save  in 
the  west,  where  still  lingered  a  brown  smudge  of  ten- 
uous vapor.  On  the  highway  that  wound  along  the 
Backbone  appeared  a  moving  silhouette  that  grew 
slowly  into  the  figure  of  a  man.  He  stopped  and 
peered  about  him  into  the  night.  On  the  end  of  a 
staff  thrown  across  his  shoulder  depended  a  handbag, 
and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  square,  bulky  package. 
This  he  placed  upon  the  ground  and  sank  with  a  mo- 
tion of  weariness  upon  it.  There  was  a  dejection  on 
the  face  of  the  youth  in  keeping  witli  the  gloom 
around  him.     The  toilsome  ascent  of  the  hill  would 

9 


10         ^ii  tfte  S>&a»oto  of  &on. 

account  for  the  weariness,  but  the  dejection  was  out 
of  place  on  the  face  of  one  so  young.  The  cause :  He 
was  drinking  the  first  bitter  draught  from  the  cup 
of  failure.  Thus  early  in  his  career  he  was  con- 
fronted with  the  question  of  his  worth.  The  one  thing 
that  he  had  felt  that  he  could  do,  that  his  soul  cried 
out  to  him  to  do,  he  had  been  told  was  hopeless.  It 
was  rebellion  at  this  ultimatum  that  embittered  his 
soul.  His  ambition  refused  to  accept  its  incapacity. 
He  would  not  acknowledge  his  disillusionment.  For 
a  moment  he  was  oblivious  of  his  environment;  he 
might  have  been  a  thousand  miles  away,  for  all  the 
impression  it  made  on  his  brain.  Then  his  jaws  shut 
to  with  a  snap,  his  clenched  hand  came  down  on  the 
bundle  with  a  sharp  clack. 

"I  will,  I  will,"  he  cried,  determinedly,  to  the 
night. 

There  was  a  quick  intake  of  breath  and  the  youth 
stood  erect,  an  air  of  defiance,  undaunted  strength, 
in  the  poise  of  his  head  as  he  faced  the  solitude.  The 
mood  of  depression  had  fallen  from  him.  He  became 
keenly  alive  to  the  magic  of  the  nocturnal  scene. 
The  moon  slipped  above  the  horizon  and  a  mystical 
transformation  touched  land  and  sky.  The  convolu- 
tions of  the  slow  moving  clouds  glowed  with  a  soft 
luminousness ;  films  of  vague  light  etched  fantastic 
shapes,  weird  outlines  on  the  inky  shadows.  From 
the  depths  of  the  valley  the  tree  tops  rose  up  ranks  of 


3n  the  @)i)aDato  of  <9dD.  u 

crouching  soldiers;  the  plain  stretched  a  limitless, 
mist-shrouded  sea. 

As  he  stood  here  alone,  his  head  among  the  clouds, 
his  shadow  falling  into  the  abyss  at  his  feet,  and 
gazed  at  the  colossal,  mystery-touched  spaces,  he  was 
lifted  up  out  of  himself — his  imagination  glowed, 
his  soul  thrilled  within  him. 

"If  I  could  only  put  it  on  canvas,"  he  muttered 
earnestly. 

He  lifted  the  bag  to  his  shoulder  and  resumed  the 
journey. 

Some  six  months  before  Marvin  Garner  had  gone 
to  'New  York  to  study  art  For  two  years  he  had 
hoarded  his  money,  earned  teaching  coimtry  schools, 
looking  forward  to  this  event.  During  the  time  he 
had  studied  and  painted,  confident  that  with  a  few 
months  of  instruction  in  the  city  he  would  be  able 
to  make  his  way.  He  saw  and  felt  so  keenly  the 
strange,  wild  beauty  of  the  untouched  Texas  world 
in  which  he  lived  that  he  did  not  doubt  for  a  mo- 
ment that  in  time  he  would  come  adequately  to  ex- 
press it  in  colors.  Like  all  artists  he  was  endowed 
with  a  passion  to  create,  and  his  soul  was  eager  for 
tangible  expression.  He  wanted  to  give  the  world 
what  he  alone  could  give.  His  egotism  lay  in  the 
belief  that  he  had  something  to  give;  his  reward 
would  be  in  the  world's  acceptance  of  it. 

He  had  corresponded  with  officers  of  the  school 


12  3n  tbt  ^baDotti  of  (S^oO* 

before  his  departure  and  had  been  encouraged  and 
urged  to  come  on.  But  three  months  in  the  metropo- 
lis saw  the  end  of  his  resources;  then  he  turned  to 
his  teachers  for  advice,  hoping  some  way  might  be 
found  for  him  to  earn  his  keep  while  he  continued 
his  studies.  They  questioned  him,  looked  over  his 
work, — a  few  figures,  drawings  from  models  and  still 
life, — shook  their  heads  and  advised  him  to  return 
to  the  West  and  teaching.  Where  there  was  unusual 
talent  help  sometimes  was  forthcoming,  but  his  case 
was  not  promising.  With  warm  regrets  and  a  cold 
touch  of  the  hand  he  was  dismissed. 

Mechanically  he  found  his  way  to  the  street,  stood 
in  the  din  and  bustle,  stunned.  ^tsTever  before  had  it 
occurred  to  him  to  question  his  powers.  Always  it 
had  been  only  a  matter  of  time  and  work.  To  hear 
himself  pronounced  incompetent,  to  be  weighed  in 
the  balance  and  found  wanting,  to  have  the  divine 
spark  he  had  cherised  pale  into  an  ignis  fatuus, 
froze,  momentarily,  all  the  springs  of  his  life. 

While  his  mother  had  not  sought  to  persuade  him 
from  the  artistic  venture,  he  knew  that  she  thought 
it  unwise.  But  his  father  had  tried  every  means  to 
turn  him  from  his  purpose.  "A  wild  goose  chase" 
had  been  the  words  used  in  referring  to  his  visit  to 
the  city.  That  his  parents  had  been  justified  in  their 
disapproval  added  poignancy  to  his  defeat.  His 
pride  rebelled  at  the  thought  of  writing  home  for 


3n  tbc  @{)aDDbi  of  <S^oD.  13 

money  with  which  to  return,  so  he  had  been  forced 
to  tramp  the  streets  for  days  looking  for  work.  At 
length  he  found  a  position  in  a  factory,  where  for 
weeks  he  stood  ten  hours  a  day  at  a  wheel  and  wound 
wire  into  bed  springs.  But  when  the  necessary  funds 
had  been  realized,  though  at  the  expense  of  great 
bodily  suffering,  his  pride  was  intact. 

Now  as  he  swung  along  the  Backbone  he  recalled 
the  incidents  of  his  brief,  ill-stared  career  in  the  city. 
While  realizing  that  an  end  had  been  put  to  his 
hopes,  at  least  for  some  years,  he  still  rejoiced  that 
he  had  made  the  venture.  It  had  been  worth  while — 
worth  the  price  of  his  humiliation.  He  had  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  world — the  great  world  of  which  he 
had  dreamed,  and  life  could  never  be  the  same  to  him 
again.  He  had  seen  the  works  of  the  great  masters 
and  now  had  a  standard  by  which  to  measure  his 
own  efforts.  Having  recovered  from  the  passing 
mortification  of  the  return,  his  spirits  began  to  grow 
bouyant  He  still  believed  in  the  goodwill  of  fate. 
Then  he  did  a  strange  thing.  He  took  from  his 
pocket  a  square  bit  of  lace,  lifted  it  above  his  eyes, 
where  it  fluttered  a  moment,  a  strange  night  motE, 
pressed  it  gently  to  his  lips  and  returned  it  to  his 
bosom.  Again  he  became  oblivious  of  the  night  and 
the  solitude. 

There  broke  upon  the  quiet  the  rumble  of  a  slow- 
moving  wagon.     Marvin  turned  and  glanced  along 


14  3n  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

the  way  he  had  just  traversed.  A  cotton  wagon 
lurched  into  view  on  the  brow  of  the  divide.  Then 
there  floated  on  the  air  the  words  of  the  old  song  he 
had  heard  his  father  sing  so  often  at  family  prayer: 

"How  firm  a  foundation  ye  saints  of  the  Lord, 
Is  laid  for  your  faith  in  His  excellent  word." 

As  the  words  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  the  depths  of 
the  valley,  he  found  himself  revising  the  last  two 
into  "wonderful  world."  Why  should  man  go  to 
books  for  his  faith,  with  the  great  world  of  sky  and 
earth  hugging  him  to  its  bosom  ?  If  one  would  only 
open  his  eyes;  only  listen?  What  a  wonderful  God 
to  have  made  it  all.  Something  out  of  the  grey  im- 
mensity seemed  to  move,  to  touch  him.  He  felt  as 
if  in  the  presence  of  a  sentient  thing — this  vague, 
mysterious,  shadowy  expanse.  If  he  could  only  catch 
the  subtle,  evasive  spirit  that  pervaded  it,  that  stirred 
the  imagination,  quickened  the  pulses,  proclaimed 
the  God  behind  and  in  it  all.  Faith  is  easy  to  youth 
and  immaturity,  though  often  but  a  pagan,  panthe- 
istic faith.  But  Marvin,  looking  back  to  that  night 
across  the  gulf  of  years,  would  have  fain  clothed  him- 
self again  in  that  faith,  that  immaturity,  but  failed. 
There  are  some  journeys  the  soul  may  take  that  can- 
not be  retraced. 

"Hello,"  said  the  man,  friendlily  from  the  wagon, 
as  he  overtook  the  pedestrian.  "Would  you  like  a  lift  V 


Kn  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  <©oB*  i5 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Marvin,  making  a  place 
for  his  bundles  and  climbing  over  the  wheel  to  the 
side  of  the  stranger. 

"Which  way  are  you  travelling?''  ^ 

"Toward  Diamond,"  answered  Marvin,  eyeing  the 
great,  angular,  bearded  Samson. 

"You're  in  luck.  I  live  two  miles  the  other  side, 
but  I  stop  there  to  unload  some  freight  IVe  got  fer 
Gamer." 

"He's  my  father." 

"You  don't  say  ?"  He  turned  and  looked  the  other 
over.  "Well,  that's  a  new  one  on  me.  Always 
heard  he  didn't  have  but  one  son  ?" 

"He  hasn't." 

"You  ain't  that  picher  son  of  his,  now,  air  you  ?" 

A  smile  came  onto  Marvin's  face  that  banished  the 
last  trace  of  his  unhappy  mood. 

"I  guess  hungry  son  would  be  more  truthful." 

The  man  hesitated,  then  fished  a  lunch-box  from 
beneath  the  seat. 

"Xo,  thank  you,"  said  Marvin,  anticipating  him; 
"I'll  soon  be  home  now,  and  I'll  not  trouble  you." 

The  driver  pushed  back  the  box.  "I  guess  you're 
wise  to  do  so,  though  you  might  'a'  found  a  bite  to 
stay  yer  stomach.  Herd  you'd  gone  to  Noo  York  to 
make  pichers?" 

"I  did.    I'm  returning." 

"How'd  you  find  the  bizness?" 


16  M  tbt  ^gaDoto  of  &ott. 

"Flourishing/^ 

"You  like  it?" 

"It  is  great/' 

"Now,  ain't  it  curious  though  how  you  find  one 
feller  wanting  to  do  this  an'  the  other  feller  that  ?  I 
take  it  it's  a  way  Providence  has  a-leadin'  men, 
keepin'  'em,  as  it  were,  from  trespassin'  on  each  other 
an'  crowdin'  the  persuits.  Though  it  do  seem  as  all 
the  youngsters  in  our  parts  feel  called  to  turn  'em- 
selves  into  lawyers  an'  doctors  —  Providence  er  no 
providence ;  an'  some  of  them  ain't  no  more  fittin'  'n 
me.  I  tell  'em  they've  jest  got  a  call  to  git  outen  the 
6un."  He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  his 
turft  of  beard  projecting  a  luminous  brush  into  the 
moonlight.  "Curious  though  the  different  talents 
Providence  gives  folks.  But  it's  jest  in  keepin'  with 
the  rest  of  his  workin's — he  works  it  'bout  right.  See 
how  he  moves  in  the  hearts  of  men — an'  wimin  fer 
that  matter — ^makin'  one  fall  in  love  here  an'  ernother 
there.  It's  a  wise  foresight  er,  as  the  feller  said, 
'everybody  might  want  my  wife,'  then  the  devil  'ud 
be  to  pay." 

He  slashed  the  reins  across  the  backs  of  the  horses 
and  guffawed.  The  thought  came  to  Marvin  that 
even  Providence  was  not  always  successful  in  steer- 
ing men  clear  of  entanglements  along  that  line,  but 
be  remained  silent. 

"They  sajr  you  air  no  common  kind  of  a  picher 


In  tbt  %|^aDotti  of  eon,         17 

taker  —  make  'em  with  yer  own  hands  —  trees  an^ 
rocks  an'  the  sky  an'  prairie  ?  Now  curious,  ain't  it  ? 
But  if  Providence  gives  you  a  talent  to  make  them 
kinds  of  pichers,  why,  I  guess  he  meant  fer  you  to 
make  'em."  He  hesitated  a  space,  then  continued 
haltingly,  as  if -he  were  not  sure  of  the  propriety  of 
his  confidences.  "If  the  Lord's  bestowed  one  of  his 
talents  on  me,  an'  I  ain't  shore  he  has,  it  would  be 
to  preach" 

"To  preach?" 

The  other  detected  the  note  of  surprise  in  Mar- 
vin's voice,  and  hastened  to  add,  "l^one  yer  circuit- 
riders  er  station  preachers  er  elders;  jest  a  licensed 
exhorter.  I  may  have  the  talent  an'  then  I  mayn't. 
If  I  have  I  wouldn't  like  to  keep  it  wrapped  in  a 
napkin,  as  the  Scripchers  says.'* 

"Have  you  made  an  effort  to  develop  your  talent  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  reckin  so.  Talk  in  prayer-meetin' 
an'  love-feasts,  exhort  the  mourners  —  with  demon- 
stration of  the  spirit,  if  I  do  say  it — ^but  I've  tried 
fer  license  twice  an'  failed." 

"Try  again,"  said  Marvin,  encouragingly.  He 
felt  a  sudden  sympathy  going  out  to  this  crude,  ig- 
norant man  who  sought  to  realize  the  longing  of  his 
soul.    They  were  brothers  in  misfortune. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oliver—Will  Oliver." 

"Well,  I  have  enjoyed  the  ride,  Mr.  Oliver.    Our 


18  an  tbe  @)t)aDott3  of  &ot. 

ambitions  are  not  so  different,  after  all.  You  want 
to  tell  about  a  God  you  get  from  a  book,  I  want  to 
paint  a  God  I  find  in  Nature.  If  you  decide  to  try 
for  license  again  Fll  be  glad  to  help  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  tryin'  agin — can't  keep  my  candle  hid 
under  a  bushel,  an*  I'll  'predate  yer  help." 

The  Backbone  dipped  toward  the  valley  and  the 
lights  of  the  village  blinked  timidly  through  the 
moonlight.  Marvin  clambered  from  the  wagon,  ask- 
ing that  his  luggage  be  left  at  the  store.  It  occurred 
to  him  as  a  good  way  to  prepare  his  parents  for  his 
unannounced  return. 

The  vehicle  rattled  on,  and  he  swung  down  the 
road  in  a  long  easy  stride.  The  ride  had  rested  him, 
and  somehow  the  companionship  revived  his  spirits 
like  a  tonic.  The  road  made  a  detour  and  brought  to 
view  a  square  of  uncultivated  ground.  It  was  called 
here  a  graveyard,  and  the  headstones  glistened  white 
in  a  tangle  of  decaying  vegetation.  He  stopped  and 
gazed  into  the  enclosure.  He  was  studying  the  play 
of  light  and  shadow  that  here  made  an  exquisite  etch- 
ing in  black  and  white.  The  significance  of  the 
ghostly  slabs  did  not  penetrate  just  yet  to  his  intelli- 
gence. He  threw  open  the  gate  and  entered.  As  he 
sat  on  a  broken  stone  his  thoughts  drifted  future- 
ward.  In  that  direction  the  outlook  was  confused, 
perplexing.  The  avenues  of  endeavor  were  limited; 
there  was  but  one  thing  unalterably  fixed — somehow 


3n  tfie  SftaDoto  of  ©on*  i9 

he  would  find  time  to  paint.  He  wondered  vaguely 
what  the  hidden  years  held  in  store  for  him,  but  the 
wildest  flight  of  his  imagination  brought  back  no  in- 
tuitions of  the  time  when  he  would  rest  again  upon 
this  same  spot,  a  man  ten  years  older,  who  instead  of 
seeking  vainly  to  look  beyond  to-day's  horizon,  would 
kneel  at  a  newly  carved  monument  and  shed  futile 
tears  as  in  regret  he  retraced  the  years. 


20  3n  ttit  ^fiaDotai  of  <$oD. 


CHAPTER   11. 

When  Marvin  turned  where  the  road,  now  a  wire- 
fenced  lane,  :^idened  into  the  one  street  of  Diamond,  a 
lone  beacon  flickered  into  the  night.  The  tread  of  his 
feet  sounded  preternaturally.  With  the  roar  of  Broad- 
way still  in  his  ears,  the  quiet  became  almost  audible. 
How  good  to  see  the  sky-line,  to  watch  the  moon  rid- 
ing the  heavens.  For  a  moment  he  was  almost  glad 
he  was  home  again. 

Presently  his  eyes  rested  on  two  motionless  figures 
in  the  shadow  of  a  porch;  then  there  was  a  quick 
movement,  a  sharp  clack  as  a  gate  swung  open — the 
next  moment  his  mother  clung  to  his  neck,  kissed  his 
cheeks,  a-tremble  with  joy. 

"Son,  what  a  glad  surprise  you  gave  us." 

If  there  was  a  rival  that  could  deflect  Marvin  from 
art  it  now  rested  on  his  bosom.  His  love  for  his 
mother  was  a  passion.  She  led  him  to  the  door 
where  his  father  stood  waiting.  Mr.  Garner  gave 
his  son  a  hearty  greeting,  and,  stooping,  brushed  his 
cheek  with  his  bearded  lips,  a  formality  he  had  clung 
to,  though  otherwise  undemonstrative  toward  his  son. 

When  Marvin  followed  his  parents  into  the  house, 


In  tijc  %|)aDotD  of  &oti.  21 

Aunt  Molly,  a  derelict  of  a  past  order  of  things, 
greeted  him  with  a  motherly  hug. 

"Bress  yeh  soul,  honey,  et  do  my  eyes  good  to  see 
you  ehgin.     You  ain't  change  a  bit." 

Supper  had  been  prepared  and  Aunt  Molly  has- 
tened to  put  it  before  him.  Then  feigning  some 
errand  to  the  kitchen,  retired,  leaving  him  alone  with 
his  mother. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Mrs.  Gamer's 
intuitions,  unerring  where  her  son  was  concerned, 
had  already  divined  the  reason  of  his  return.  And 
while  rejoicing  in  her  soul  at  what  she  interpreted 
as  its  prophetic  significance,  with  rare  delicacy  re- 
frained from  any  word  or  question  that  might  reveal 
to  him  that  she  knew.  With  motherly  tact  she  soon 
had  him  at  his  ease,  and,  forgetting  himself,  he 
plunged  with  her  into  the  w^hirl  of  the  great  metrop- 
olis; bringing  to  her  imagination  vivid  pictures  of 
its  streets,  crash  of  traffic,  skyscrapers,  ship-laden 
rivers,  and  most  vividly  of  all  the  wonderful  gal- 
leries where  hung  the  works  of  the  masters.  But 
there  was  a  touch  of  regret  in  his  voice  as  he  closed 
the  glowing  recital. 

"But  I  had  to  give  it  up." 
"Son,  perhaps  it  will  be  for  the  best." 
With    his   mother   everything  was   for   the    best. 
Often  he  had  been  irritated  at  her  unreasoning  opti- 
mism, but  now  he  answered  cheerfully. 


"Well,  I  should  hope  so." 

When  his  mother  left  him  alone  the  door  to  the 
kitchen  was  slowly  opened  and  a  colored  head  pro- 
truded dubiously. 

"Come  in,  Aunt  Molly.*' 

"Whar'syo'maT 

"Gone  up  to  see  about  my  room.'' 

Aunt  Molly  heaved  a  sigh  and  rolled  her  eyes  in 
a  way  that  indicated  great  disturbance  of  mind. 

"What  is  it,  Aunt  Molly  ?"  said  Marvin,  encourag- 
ingly. 

"Mistah  Marvin,  you  sho'  has  a  great  raysponsible- 
ness — you  sho'  has."  She  paused  to  note  the  effect 
of  her  words. 

"How's  that.  Aunt  Molly?" 

"No,  sah,  wouldn't  hab  no  sech  raysponsibleness 
on  dese  shoulders,"  and  she  gave  those  expansive 
knobs  of  fat  a  deprecating  shrug. 

Marvin  refused  to  gratify  her  by  further  show  of 
curiosity. 

"I  refuhs  to  that  anjil  mother  ob  yo'n — ^you  don't 
half  suspicion  dat  mother  you  got." 

"But  not  an  angel  for  a  long  time,  I  hope." 

"Yes,  sah,  I  knows  what  you  mean,  but  I'z  done 
an'  recluded  dat  you  don'  hab  to  die  foali  you's  an 
anjil — ^not  yo'  mother.  Ef  you  done  ain'  anjils 
yere  howsomedever  you  goin'  to  be  anjils  in  the  New 
'Jerusalem  ?    No,  sah,  you  jes'  go  on  bein'  what  you 


In  ttje  g)l)aDoto  of  ©oD*  23 

wah  ober  yere,  er  yer  somebody  else.  Yes,  sah,  you 
jes'  gits  yer  wings  an'  robes  of  white  ober  dar.  How- 
somedever  hadn't  been  you  done  come  back  yo' 
mother  done  be  gittin'  ready  fah  de  wings  an'  white 
rayment.  Yes,  sah,  been  griebin'  herself  to  deth 
while  you  in  de  great  city " 

"Why,  Aunty,  she  never  said  a  word  against  my 
going." 

"N^o,  sah,  no  she  ain't ;  no,  sah,  dat  ain't  her  way 
— ^go  makin'  trouble  an'  forcin'  her  will,  but  I  knows. 
Yes,  sah,  she's  furd  far  you  in  de  city.  Don'  tell 
me  I  ain't  done  seed  her  griebin'  an'  griebin'.  Ain't 
I  done  come  on  her,  time  ner  gin',  when  she  think 
nobody  roun',  cryin'  an'  prayin'  ?  Yes,  sah,  prayin' 
fah  you,  an'  beggin'  de  Lord  to  keep  you  from  de 
wicked  way  ob  de  city  an'  bring  you  back  speedly. 
Yes,  sah,  dat's  what  she  say  —  speedly,  an'  her 
prayer  done  been  answered,  an'  you  done  come." 

"But,  Aunty,  you  know  I  was  coming  back  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  sometime,  maybe  so,  sometime,  but 
yo'  mother  say  speedly,  an'  yere  you  is.  The  Lord's 
'quainted  wid  dat  mother  ob  yo'n.  She  jes'  talk  to 
him  like  he  right  dar,  an'  he  done  hear  her.  Yes, 
sah,  if  you  don'  love  an'  cherish  dat  mother  ob  yo'n 
de  Lord  goin'  to  sen'  some  great  calamty,  he  sho'  is. 
^ow,  I's  done  said  it,"  she  broke  off  abruptly,  as 
she  turned  to  the  dishes,  with  the  air  of  having  got 
well  rid  of  an  unpleasant  duty. 


24:  3n  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

Marvin's  room  was  a  little  nest  up  near  the  roof, 
and  when  he  entered  it  he  found  it  just  as  he  had 
left  it  five  months  before.  His  palette,  whittled  out 
of  a  white  pine  board,  his  easel  and  brushes  en- 
crusted with  paint,  had  remained  untouched ;  but  the 
crude  pictures  his  mother  had  decorated  with  mat 
and  cardboard  frames  and  hung  on  the  wall.  A 
Bible  had  been  placed  conspicuously  on  the  table,  re- 
placing the  one  his  mother  had  slipped  into  his  grip. 
His  window  opened  onto  the  valley,  and  he  looked 
out  into  the  glory  of  the  moonlight  He  felt  a  sudden 
depression  as  if  some  unseen  force  was  seeking  to 
influence  him  against  his  will.  The  words  of  Aunt 
Molly  had  stuck  in  his  ears.  "Yes,  speedily,  that's 
what  she  said."  Could  a  mother's  prayers  cripple  a 
son's  ambition?  Was  it  possible  God  had  anything 
to  do  with  his  failure?  Did  he  concern  himself  in 
the  affairs  of  unknown,  struggling  youths  ?  He  had 
never  thought  of  the  matter  in  this  light  before. 
While  religion  had  never  made  any  special  appeal  to 
him  he  had  unquestioningly  accepted  what  he  had 
been  taught.  But  this  new  phase  of  it  caused  him  to 
wonder,  to  think.  Was  man  after  all  a  mere  puppet 
in  the  hands  of  the  All-Powerf ul  ?  Could  the  God 
who  had  seemed  to  speak  to  him  on  Devil's  Backbone 
exult  in  compassing  his  humiliation?  Would  he 
have  to  take  him  into  partnership  if  he  succeeded  in 
art?     Suppose  his  prayers  should  clash  with  his 


In  tht  %6alioiu  of  ©oD*  25 

mother's?  He  became  confused.  He  would  try  to 
think  it  out  sometime.  A  great  drowsiness  overcame 
him  and  he  fell  asleep,  the  rasping  voice  of  Will 
Oliver  dinning  in  his  ears,  "ITo,  I  ain't  goin'  to  bury 
my  talent." 


26  3n  tjbe  @)i)aSoto  of  aoo^ 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  following  morning  Marvin  sat  by  the  open 
window  gazing  down  the  valley  that  yawned  at  his 
feet.  Across  the  black  farmland  workmen  plodded 
slowly,  turning  up  endless  glistening  furrows  to  the 
sun.  Beyond,  Devil's  Backbone  lifted  its  bald  head 
against  the  cold  sky.  As  he  looked  he  fell  to  ques- 
tioning— why  was  he  so  out  of  harmony  with  the 
life  around  him  ?  from  whence  came  the  dominating 
instinct  that  obsessed  him  ?  But  he  must  go  to  work. 
The  world  must  see  the  great  Texas  he  loved  through 
his  eyes.  There  would  be  years  of  labor,  perhaps 
disappointments — ^but  then !  Some  day  he  would  be 
hailed  as  the  new  Corot,  the  untaught  Millet  of  the 
West.  He  was  impatient  to  begin.  But  there  was 
a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm,  the  pressure  of  which 
was  to  dispel  his  dreams  and  fill  his  life  with  trag- 
edy. His  mother's  arms  slipped  about  his  neck,  her 
lips  were  warm  against  his  cheek. 

"Why,  son,  you  are  most  a  man.  I — ^I  can  feel 
it." 

"Yes,  I  must  shave. '* 

He  turned  and  kissed  her.  How  he  loved  this 
timid  mother  of  his.    How  proud  she  would  be  when 


3n  tbt  @f)aDoto  of  <SoD»  27 

he  had  proven  his  powers.  If  he  could  lead  her 
through  the  Metropolitan,  let  her  see  what  it  meant 
to  be  an  artist?  Perhaps  he  would  some  day.  He 
pulled  her  onto  his  knee,  and  holding  her  in  his 
strong  arms  motioned  toward  the  valley. 

"Look  down  there,  ma,"  he  said.  "Some  day  I'll 
have  it  all  on  canvas." 

A  look  of  fear  came  into  her  eyes.  She  became 
suddenly  sober,  distressed.  Then  she  said  falter- 
ingly: 

"Son,  don't  you  think  it  is  more  beautiful  just  as 
it  is?"  She  struggled  from  him  and  sank  into  a 
rocker  at  his  side. 

"You  mean  unpainted?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  gazing  to  where  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud  flitted  like  a  sinitser  ghost  across  the  radiance 
of  the  fields. 

"But,  ma,  none  but  blind  eyes  see  it,"  he  insisted. 
"Think  of  it — there  are  hundreds  who  would  gladly 
give  thousands  of  dollars  for  the  landscape  from  this 
window.  But  it  is  not  just  what  you  see  that  I'd 
catch,  but  what  it  suggests — the  mysterious  some- 
thing that  fills  the  imagination  wath  thoughts  — 
thoughts  of  the  wonderful  God  that  moves  in  it  all. 
I  can't  express  it — if  you  don't  understand  already 
I  can't  make  you  understand,"  he  said  hopelessly. 

"Son,  I  think  I  do  understand,  a  little."  The  un- 
easiness had  gone  from  her  eyes ;  a  glad  light  kindled 


in  their  depths.  '^I  think  I  know  how  you  feel.  'Nsl- 
ture  often  moves  me  in  that  way.  But,  son,  God  in 
Nature  is  cold,  illusive,  impersonal.  It  is  not  in 
hill  and  sky  that  He  speaks  plainest  to  the  soul.  His 
nature,  His  attitude  toward  man,  is  revealed  only 
in  His  Son.  If  you  would  look  to  him  w^ith  the  same 
eagerness,  openness  of  mind,  that  you  bestow  upon 
the  works  of  His  hand,  IleM  come  into  your  heart, 
so  fill  it  with  love  for  Him  that  you'd  long  to  cry 
it  out  to  the  world.  How  much  more  noble  to  tell 
of  His  mercy,  goodness,  forgiveness,  love,  to  poor, 
lost,  sinful  men  than  to  paint  the  most  beautiful  pic- 
tures ?" 

She  paused,  her  eyes  searchingly  on  his  face.  But 
he  made  no  response.  The  full  import  of  her  words 
had  not  yet  dawned  upon  him.  Somehow  he  always 
felt  embarrassed  when  his  mother  spoke  to  him  in 
this  intimate  way  of  religion. 

"IVe  thought,  son,  forgive  me  for  speaking 
plainly,  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  spoken  sooner,  that 
this  impulse  you  seem  to  have  toward  art  is  a  mis- 
taken one.  What  you  feel  and  do  not  understand  is 
the  Holy  Spirit  leading  you  toward  a  higher  call- 
ing." 

Marvin  understood  now.  The  revelation  came  like 
a  shock.  His  imagination  caught  up  the  idea,  turned 
it  about  and  viewed  it  in  a  dozen  different  lights. 


3n  tl)e  ©fiaDoto  of  &ot}.  29 

Already  he  saw  himself  grotesque,  bizarre,  in  the 
role  of  preacher — the  thought  was  r(Jpulsive. 

''Ma,  it  isn't  possible — ^you  can't  mean  that  I 
ought  to  preach?" 

''Yes,  son,  I  feel  as  sure  of  it  as  I  do  that  you  are 
here  by  my  side  and  not  in  the  faraway  wicked  city." 

"But,  ma,  ought  we  not  to  do  what  we  love  to  do  ? 
— what  Nature  seems  to  have  meant  for  us  to  do?" 

"Yes,  son,  that  sounds  plausible.  But  if  we  should 
always  do  the  things  we  love  to  do  where  would  it 
lead  us  ?  The  higher  duties  of  life  call  for  some  sac- 
rifice. Where  would  fallen  man  be  to-day  if  Christ 
had  thought  only  of  His  own  comfort,  had  not  given 
himself,  even  unto  death,  for  us  ?  We  must  take  up 
our  cross." 

She  moved  her  chair  nearer  and  let  her  head  rest 
on  his  arm. 

"Son,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  why  I  am  sure  you 
ought  to  preach,  and  why  I  have  never  spoken  to  you 
before.  When  you  were  a  babe,  just  beginning  to 
toddle  about,  a  session  of  the  annual  conference  was 
held  in  the  town  where  we  lived.  Bishop  Marvin, 
for  whom  you  are  named,  presided.  Your  father 
and  I  had  the  honor  to  entertain  him.  When  he 
arrived  you  had  been  sick  some  days.  You  rapidly 
gi-ew  worse,  and  all  hope  of  your  recovery  had  been 
despaired  of.     We  watched  over  you  day  and  night 


30  3n  ttt  SftaDoto  of  &oi, 

expecting  the  end  at  any  moment.  One  morning  at 
the  close  of  prayers,  the  Bishop  asked  if  he  might 
see  you.  We  led  him  to  where  you  lay,  feebly  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  your  life  flickering  out.  The  Bishop 
stood  a  moment  looking  do\vn  at  you  silently,  then 
he  took  you  in  his  arms  and,  lifting  his  fine  thought- 
ful eyes  as  if  looking  into  the  very  face  of  God, 
prayed  for  your  life.  Listen,  son,  these  are  his 
words;  they  have  never  ceased  to  echo  in  my  ears 
and  make  music  in  my  heart :  ^Father,  spare  the  life 
of  this  babe,  and,  if  it  is  thy  will,  call  him  into  thy 
holy  ministry.'  From  that  hour  you  began  to  re- 
cover, and  before  the  conference  was  ended  you  were 
being  tossed  in  the  Bishop's  arms  and  toddled  at 
his  heels.  Son,  it  seemed  like  a  miracle,  and  IVe 
felt  that  the  Lord  meant  you  to  be  a  preacher.  We 
have  never  mentioned  the  incident  for  we  did  not 
wish  to  influence  your  mind  till  you  were  old  enough 
to  think  for  yourself.  But  all  these  years  your  f atlier 
and  I  have  not  let  a  day  pass  that  we  did  not  add 
our  prayers  to  that  of  the  Bishop.  I  did  not  oppose 
your  going  to  ^N'ew  York  for  I  felt  that  it  might  in 
some  way  help  you  to  a  decision  in  the  choice  of 
your  life-work.  When  you  returned  so  unexpectedly 
I  hoped  that  you  might  have  given  up  art,  and 
thought  it  time  for  you  to  know  what  has  been  so 
long  in  our  ininds." 

Marvin's  chin  had  dropped  to  his  hands.    He  still 


In  tbt  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oD^  si 

stared  fixedly  into  the  sunlit  spaces.  His  mother 
Irose  and  stood  a  moment  uncertainly.  "Son,  for- 
give me  if  —  if  yon  think  I  should  have  spoken 
sooner."  She  bent  and  kissed  him,  and,  turning, 
glided  softly  away. 

Marvin  still  thought  upon  his  mother's  revelation 
and  sought  to  face  the  new  problem,  when  his  father's 
broad  shoulders  and  great  head  of  hair  crossed  his 
line  of  vision.  He  had  scarcely  moved  since  his 
mother  left  him  an  hour  ago.  Mr.  Garner  stopped 
in  the  door  hesitatingly,  regarding  his  son.  He 
seemed  to  divine  what  had  transpired.  Marvin 
looked  up  constrainedly,  but  turned  again  quickly  to 
the  window.  His  father  moved  across  the  room  to  an 
opposite  one.  Far  beyond  a  stretch  of  sombre  fields 
and  woods  the  brown  prairie  swelled  onto  the  sky. 
He  fell  to  watching  some  cattle  as  they  came  single 
file  over  the  divide — their  horns  protruding  at  first 
mysteriously,  then  the  outline  slowly  growing  till  the 
animal  stood  a  black  silhouette — to  quickly  pass  from 
sight.  Though  thinking  of  his  son,  searching  for 
words  to  express  that  which  he  w^ished  to  say,  the 
thought  intruded  on  his  mind — how  like  it  was  to 
life.  We  emerge  out  of  darkness,  stand  for  a  mo- 
ment fullgrown  in  the  light,  then  pass  into  the  "val- 
ley of  the  shadow."  He  turned  with  sudden  resolve, 
walked  to  his  son  and  threw  himself  into  the  chair 
his  wife  had  lately  vacated. 


32  3n  tht  %i)a&otti  of  <&»oD. 

"Marvin,  your  mother  has  spoken  to  you?'' 

"Yes." 

"Don't  act  hastily,  son.  Take  plenty  of  time  to 
think  it  over.  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you  make  a  mis- 
take that  might  spoil  your  life.  Life  at  best  is  so 
very  short,  so  unsatisfactory,  that  we  should  seek  to 
make  the  most  of  it  In  making  a  choice  of  a  career 
we  should  keep  in  view  what  will  be  best  for  us  and 
others  in  the  long  run,  in  the  end." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Mr.  Garner  rose  halt- 
ingly and  walked  back  and  forth  the  room;  stood  a 
space  looking  down  on  the  drooping  figure,  then 
turned  slowly  and  left  his  son  alone  with  his 
thoughts. 


3n  tht  9)|baDotai  of  <$oD*  33 


CHAPTER   IV. 

At  the  edge  of  a  little  farm,  two  miles  across  the 
valley  from  Diamond,  late  one  afternoon  a  shirt- 
sleeved  man  worked  havoc  among  the  trees,  the  sound 
of  his  ax  ringing  sharply  on  the  air.  His  sleeves 
were  rolled  back  above  his  elbows,  and  as  he  lifted  his 
arm  for  the  telling  stroke  the  muscles  bunched  into 
quivering  knobs;  his  shock  of  yellow  hair  flared  in 
the  wind.  He  was  tall,  straight  of  spine,  the  outline 
of  his  erect  figure,  from  the  point  of  his  shoulders  to 
his  feet,  forming  a  great  letter  V.  His  sun-tanned 
features  were  coarse  like  the  lineaments  of  a  stone 
statute;  his  movements  suggested  a  large,  well-built, 
healthy  animal.  As  he  toiled,  a  pungent  odor  exuded 
from  his  person  into  the  air.  He  lopped  the  branches 
from  the  felled  tree  and  gathered  them  into  conical- 
shaped  heaps.  A  number  of  these  already  dotted  the 
open  between  the  trees — pigmy  huts,  soon  to  be- 
come lurking  places  for  night  prowlers,  isles  of  ref- 
uge for  the  sorely  pressed  cottontail.  Alongside  these 
were  oblong  stacks  of  cordwood,  the  red  hearts  of  the 
split  oak  giving  a  touch  of  color  to  the  predominating 
duns  and  browns. 

Occasionally  the  woodman  paused,  leaning  on  the 


34  3n  tfte  ®J)aDoto  of  ©oO, 

handle  of  his  ax  as  he  measured  with  calculating  eye 
the  cords  of  wood.  During  one  of  these  rests  he 
turned  toward  the  west  to  ascertain  the  time  of  day, 
his  hand  stretched  out  toward  the  horizon  that 
showed  beneath  the  sun.  As  he  drew  it  back  he  saw 
a  footman  approaching  from  the  direction  of  tjie  vil- 
lage. He  stood  a  moment  regarding  him,  then  with 
an  air  of  recognition,  he  hastily  put  on  his  hat  and 
coat  and  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Mr.  Marvin,"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
loud  bass,  a  broad  grin  gashing  his  face.  He  was  evi- 
dently pleased  at  the  unexpected  visit. 

"I  hope  you  ain't  come  up  yere  to  make  my 
picher/'  he  said  crushing  the  extended  hand. 

"^No,  not  to  paint  you ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Let 
us  sit  do\vn." 

They  returned  to  the  fallen  log  into  which  Oliver 
had  just  sunk  his  ax  to  the  helve.  The  odor  of 
bruised  twigs,  mold,  new  earth,  and  freshly  cut  wood 
was  in  the  air.  Marvin's  eyes  wandered  to  the  cabin 
and  he  took  in  in  a  half -seeing  way  the  activities  of 
small  life  going  on  there.  Towheaded  children  ran 
in  and  out  the  door,  gazing  curiously  tow^ard  the  men 
in  the  w^oods.  Occasionally  a  form  darkened  the 
window,  and  in  a  quavering  treble  the  words,  "Come 
to  the  fountain  filled  with  blood,"  floated  out  on  the 
,evening.  A  pagan  wail  of  superstition  that  still 
vitally  echoed  down  the  closing  years  of  the  nine- 


In  tfie  SfiaDoto  of  ©oD»  35 

teenth  century,  and  would  continue  to  echo  —  how 
long? 

"I  want  to  know  just  how  you  felt,  Mr.  Oliver, 
when  you  first  thought  you  ought  to  preach  ?"  Marvin 
hegan. 

Oliver  felt  complimented.  "Jest  call  me  Bill;  I 
ain't  never  got  used  to  nothin'  else — less'n  it's  Brother 
Will,"  he  said  meekly  enough,  but  beginning  to  swell 
with  self-importance  at  finding  himself  an  object  of 
interest.  He  took  a  damp  plug  of  tobacco  from  his 
hip-pocket  and  offered  it  to  his  visitor.  But  being 
refused  he  liberally  filled  his  own  mouth.  He  was 
not  going  to  enter  upon  the  recital  of  so  important  a 
subject  as  his  spiritual  experiences  without  proper 
nourishment. 

"Well,  Brother  Marvin,  it  was  an  awful  feelin'. 
For  a  long  time  I  didn't  know  what  was  the  matter. 
I  seemed  to  lose  interest  in  everything ;  felt  like  some- 
thing turrible  was  goin*  to  happen,  and  had  bad 
dreams  nights.  It  went  on  that  way  fer  months,  then 
one  Sunday,  while  I  was  listening  to  Parson  Hardy, 
it  flashed  over  me  Vz  called  to  preach,  an'  the  feelin' 
I  had  was  jest  the  movin'  of  the  Spirit.  I  spoke  to 
the  parson  an'  he  said  it  might  be  I  had  jest  been 
neglectin'  my  duty;  that  if  I  had  a  call  there 
wouldn't  be  no  gettin'  away  from  it.  Well,  I  took 
up  my  duty,  but  I  didn't  git  no  better,  but  I  kept 
procrastinatin'j  thinkin'  shorely  the  Lord  wouldn't 


36  an  tbt  ^i)alioto  of  ($oD. 

call  an  ignorant  feller  like  me — I  didn't  feel  fittin' 
to  preach.  Then  'bout  that  time  I  met  Mary  an' 
fell  in  love.  After  that  the  carnal  man  got  the  upper 
hand  of  me,  an'  I  didn't  think  of  nothin'  but  Mary 
till  we  got  married.  Then  the  Spirit  seemed  to 
leave  me.  I  got  so  at  ease  in  Zion  I  couldn't  'a'  felt 
miserable  if  I  had  tried.  Well,  Tom  come,  an'  the 
nex'  year  Lulu,  an'  my  min'  was  so  taken  up  with 
worldly  things  I  fergot  all  'bout  religin  an'  the  call. 
Why,  fer  two  year  me  an'  Mary  never  went  to  a 
camp-meetin'.  Then  there  come  'long  one  fall  the 
'vangelist  Clark  from  Dallas  an'  begin  a  revival  over 
on  Brushy.  The  neighborhood  went  wild  over  him. 
Me  an'  Mary  drove  over  one  night,  more  outen  curi- 
osity then  fer  any  spiritual  good.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful meetin'.  The  Spirit  got  hoi'  of  me  agin,  an' 
'fore  I  knowed  what  I  was  doin'  I'z  standin'  among 
the  mourners  shoutin'  an'  exhortin'.  Then  I  felt 
shore  I  had  the  call.  As  I  tol'  you  on  Backbone 
t'other  night  Tve  tried  twice  fer  license  an'  failed. 
Maybe  the  Lord's  jest  puttin'  obstacles  in  the  way  to 
try  my  faith ;  but  I'm  studyin'  an'  I'm  goin'  to  try 
agin." 

He  paused  to  note  the  effect  of  his  experiences. 
The  sun  was  setting  red  on  the  rim  of  the  valley,  a 
fringe  of  denude  trees  etching  a  black  arabesque  on 
its  disk.  A  long  yellow  bar  shot  athwart  the  gloom- 
ing spaces,  penetrated  for  moment  the  shadows  of 


3n  tbt  ^t)aDoto  of  &oU,  37 

the  woods  and  illuminated  the  speaker's  face.  His 
head  was  thrown  back  in  sober  poise,  his  ox  eyes 
glowed  with  earnest  seriousness,  the  lines  of  his  face 
spoke  a  pathetic  sincerity.  Marvin  almost  envied 
him. 

"No,  I  ain't  got  no  gifts  er  education  fer  the  regu- 
lar work,  but  if  Vz  jest  a  licensed  exhorter,  I'd  be 
the  happiest  man  alive." 

"I  hope  you  will  succeed  next  time.  Brother  Will. 
Come  over  and  perhaps  we  can  study  together,"  Mar- 
vin said,  rising. 

Oliver  watched  him  picking  his  way  through  the 
underbrush  till  lost  to 'view  in  the  shadows;  then 
throwing  his  ax  across  his  shoulder,  he  swung  to- 
ward the  cabin,  singing  lustily,  "How  firm  a  founda- 
tion." 

Half-way  the  distance  to  the  village,  Marvin  was 
confronted  with  the  almost  perpendicular  side  of  one 
of  the  bare  limestone  mounds  common  to  that  section. 
The  path  wound  around  its  base,  but  he  chose  to  climb 
the  barrier.  In  his  present  state  of  mind  any  physical 
exertion  was  welcomed.  Following  one  of  the  many 
cow  trails  he  soon  emerged  on  its  summit,  and  stood 
a  moment  a  black  isolated  column.  The  dome  above 
was  filled  with  dense,  opaque  mist,  and  there  was  a 
stillness  in  the  air  that  presaged  change.  Somewhere 
in  the  obscurity  broke  the  staccato  squak  of  geese 
fleeing  southward. 


38  3n  tfte  SiftaDoto  of  (SoD* 

He  sat  down  and  peered  into  the  dark.  Up  to  this 
time  he  had  held  in  abeyance  the  final  decision  con- 
cerning his  future.  The  revelation  of  his  mother 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  unreckoned  problems 
that  clamored  for  some  solution.  Here  in  this  iso- 
lated spot  he  would  find  the  answer.  Alone  on  the 
mountain  top,  in  the  very  presence  of  God. 

Until  a  few  days  ago  he  had  accepted  religion  as 
he  found  it — blindly,  loyally,  unquestioningly.  He 
had  not  sought  to  pry  into  the  way  of  it  or  delve  into 
its  foundations.  Now  new  phases  of  it  confronted 
him.  God's  personal  interference  in  the  life  of  the 
individual  challenged  his  faith.  With  all  the  egotism 
of  youth  and  temperament  he  had  not  assumed  that 
he  was  of  so  much  value.  How  confused  he  became 
when  he  thought  of  it.  How  confusing  to  God  it 
must  be  listening  to  all  the  prayers  that  welled  up 
from  the  millions  of  earth.  Did  he  hear  them  ?  And 
hearing,  did  He  pick  and  choose  those  He  would 
heed  ?  selecting  one  to  honor  and  another  to  dishonor  ? 
humiliating  this  one,  exalting  that?  Could  one 
fathom  the  secret  of  His  rule  of  procedure  ?  deter- 
mine if  he  fell  among  the  favored?  The  time-old 
problems — problems  the  theologians  have  given  their 
lives  seeking  to  make  plain,  only  to  confuse  in  clouds 
of  obscurity — rose  to  baffle  him,  sink  him  deeper  in 
the  mire.  If  God  was  going  to  order  his  life  in  spite 
of  him,  why  pray  at  all  ?    To  be  just  He  must  do  the 


3n  tfie  %)f)aDoto  of  <SJoa*  39 

same  with  every  life.  Then  if  a  man  became  a  mur- 
derer or  thief,  who  was  to  blame  ?  Was  it  God  who 
kept  Will  Oliver  from  the  ministry  ?  was  forcing  him 
into  it  against  his  will?  Was  someone  outpraying 
Oliver?  Was  it  possible  if  he  prayed  fervently 
enough  to  prevail  over  his  mother's  prayers,  and  God 
would  make  him  a  great  artist  instead  of  the  preacher 
that  the  Bishop  and  his  parents  had  prayed  that  he 
might  become  ?  Was  there  a  balance  of  power  in  the 
amount  of  prayer?  Could  he  by  persistency  over- 
take, annul  the  years  of  prayer  prayed  while  he  was 
helpless?  Why  should  God  put  it  in  a  man  to  love 
one  thing  and  damn  him  if  he  did  not  do  something 
else  —  something  else  that  was  repulsive  —  that  he 
could  not  do  ?  If  he  chose  art  God  would  checkmate 
him,  bring  him  to  abject  failure,  damn  his  soul. 
If  he  chose  the  ministry  it  seemed  to  him  life  would 
not  be  worth  while,  damnation  preferable.  He  had 
gone  over  it  again  and  again  to  always  arrive  in  per- 
plexity at  the  same  blank  wall.  But  he  would  not 
leave  this  spot  till  the  matter  was  settled.  He  pro- 
jected his  mind  into  the  future  and  saw  himself  in 
the  role  of  preacher — a  circuit-rider,  going  his  rounds 
horseback,  his  saddle-bags  stuffed  with  books,  preach- 
ing in  the  bleak  chapels,  schoolhouses,  under  brush 
arbors.  As  a  town  preacher,  Sunday  after  Sunday 
looking  into  the  same  faces,  telling  the  same  story; 
he  even  imagined  himself  clothed  with  the  authority 


^0  M  tbt  ^a  Dotal  of  <&^oD. 

of  the  presiding  elder,  moving  a  man  of  influence  and 
power  throughout  the  country,  but  the  picture  only 
filled  him  with  repugnance ;  then  over  against  it  was 
that  other  picture  that  had  burned  itself  into  the  very 
texture  of  his  soul — an  artist  among  artists ;  his  pic- 
tures in  the  homes  of  the  great,  in  the  galleries  of  the 
world,  his  name  among  the  immortals.  No  circum- 
scribed honor  must  be  his — his  sphere  of  conquest 
must  be  the  world.  Then  before  him,  blotting  out 
the  other  pictures,  rose  his  mother^s  face  with  the 
deep  yearning  eyes,  grappling  his  soul^  moving  him 
against  his  will.  She  knew  God,  she  talked  to  Him 
face  to  face ;  she  it  was  who  could  bring  him  speedily 
from  afar  to  her  side.  There  was  no  escaping  her 
intimacy  with  God.  Had  not  God  spared  his  life  for 
this  very  purpose  ?  Why  did  the  Bishop  interfere  ? 
why  did  he  not  die  ?  It  was  wrong,  cruel,  to  take 
advantage  of  a  helpless,  dying  babe.  He  threw  him- 
self prone  upon  the  ground,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands.  He  was  filled  with  unutterable  woe.  There 
was  borne  to  him  through  the  night  an  etherialized 
voice — a  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  to  him  from  the 
clouds. 

"When  through  the  deep  waters  I  call  thee  to  go 
The  rivers  of  woe  shall  not  thee  overflow." 

He  listened  intently,  wonderingly;  then  ceased  to 
reason.     His  imagination  centered  on  his  mother. 


3n  tbt  ^batjoto  of  (StoO*  4i 

He  saw  her  watching  over  him  through  the  long 
nights  as  he  tottered  on  the  borderland ;  the  look  on 
her  face  as  the  Bishop  lifted  him  in  his  arms;  saw 
her  through  the  years  kneeling  night  after  night  alone 
with  God,  praying,  praying  —  always  one  prayer. 
How  her  face  would  shine  if  he  could  go  and  tell  her 
the  prayer  was  answered.  Perhaps  his  teachers  were 
right ;  his  dream  of  art  was  a  delusion.  What  if  he 
should  succeed,  become  a  great  artist,  and  break  his 
mother's  heart?  Gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 
own  soul  ?  What  would  weigh  in  the  balance  against 
the  love  of  his  mother  ?  She  had  borne  him,  nursed 
him,  he  was  bone  of  her  bone,  flesh  of  her  flesh,  his 
very  brain  and  blood  were  a  part  of  her. 

'^O  God,  I  can't,  I  can't !"  he  cried. 

He  was  now  on  his  back,  his  eyes  straining  into  the 
dark.  At  last  he  seemed  to  feel  the  spell  of  his  moth- 
er's prayers,  the  silent  kneeling  form  would  not  away, 
her  presence  overwhelmed  him. 

"God  help  me,  help  me!"  he  moaned,  desperate, 
distraught.  And  the  answer  came  in  quavering  dim- 
enuendo. 

"I'll  never — no,   never — no,  never  forsake " 

then  silence,  and  darkness,  and  the  lone  mountain 
top. 

An  hour  later  he  rose  from  the  ground.  His  limbs 
were  numb  with  cold  and  his  clothes  dropped  moist- 
ure^ but  he  did  not  know.    He  went  swinging  blithely 


42  3n  the  ©fialioto  of  ©on* 

along,  tossing  aside  the  bushes,  whistling  a  snatcH 
of  nmsic-hall  song  that  he  had  picked  up  in  he  city, 
and  was  not  conscious  of  its  incongruity.  The  incu- 
bus had  fallen  from  his  brain  and  he  was  conscious 
only  of  an  eagerness  for  the  warmth  of  his  home  and 
the  presence  of  his  mother. 

His  parents  were  waiting  him.  They  looked  up 
relieved  when  he  entered. 

"Son,  where  have  you  been  ?  We  could  not  imagine 
what  was  keeping  you.'* 

He  threw  off  his  hat  and  sat  down  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  just  made  a  safe  harbor,  and  is 
glad.  *'I've  been  up  to  see  Will  Oliver.  We  are 
going  to  study  for  the  ministry." 

His  mother  gave  a  little  joyous  cry,  tears  coming 
into  her  eyes.     His  father's  face  lit  up. 

"Son,  you  have  made  a  wise  choice,"  he  said. 

Before  Mrs.  Garner  went  to  sleep  that  night  she 
said  to  her  husband: 

"I'll  never  doubt  again  that  God  answers  prayer." 

"Then  pray  that  he  become  a  bishop,"  returned 
her  husband. 


9n  tlje  ^jbaDoto  of  (S^oti.  '43 


CHAPTER   V. 

There  is  nothing  bleaker,  less  inviting  to  the  in- 
stinct of  worship,  or  less  calculated  to  rouse  the  es- 
thetic and  spiritual  sensibilities  than  the  "meetin' 
house"  that  once  dotted  the  settlements  of  the  West- 
ern prairies,  and  even  yet  linger  in  obscure  places, 
reminders  of  the  stern  fiber  of  the  religious  pioneer's 
soul  that  needed  not  the  stimuli  of  stained-glass  and 
pipe  organ  to  coax  it  en  rapport  with  the  Unseen. 

To  one  of  these  rude  structures,  crowning  an  emi- 
nence, stark  against  the  sky,  could  be  seen  converging 
some  months  later  on  a  raw  December  day,  horsemen, 
farm  wagons,  dilapidated  buggies.  In  one  of  the 
vehicles  of  the  better  kind  travelled  Marvin  Garner 
and  his  pastor,  Rev.  Stewart  !N"elson.  The  Rev. 
IN'elson  was  short  and  stocky.  His  sallow,  flabby 
cheeks  had  the  appearance  of  having  once  been 
bloated,  but  now  succumbed  to  some  inevitable 
shrinking  process  in  keeping  with  the  downgrade  of 
his  fortune.  His  pale  blue  eyes  had  a  weary  look 
that  persistently  sought  to  appear  deceptively  cheer- 
ful. In  fact,  a  perennial  good  humor  was  Rev.  Nel- 
son's stock-in-trade.  He  seemed  to  realize  his  defi- 
ciencies in  those  gifts  that  appealed  to  and  win  the 


^4^  3tt  m  ®{)aDoto  of  (Sob* 

hearts  of  the  faithful — eloquence,  power  in  prayer, 
commanding  presence.  So  he  strove  to  make  amends 
in  unfailing  good  fellowship — to  amuse  and  enter- 
tain. He  was  successful,  but  like  all  success  it  came 
at  the  price  of  great  effort.  'No  one  suspected  the 
cost  of  that  easily  wreathing,  faded  countenance,  the 
jolly  word,  the  unheard  of  joke.  But  Nelson  knew, 
and  often  while  he  made  merry  for  those  who  de- 
manded merriment  his  thoughts  were  with  an  invalid 
wife,  a  houseful  of  half-fed,  half-clothed  children — 
and  he  must  laugh  and  make  others  laugh  or  they  go 
hungry.  His  support,  meager  as  it  was,  depended 
upon  his  ability  to  please,  and  please  he  did.  But 
no  one,  not  even  his  wife,  knew  that  he  as  regularly 
studied  his  Piick  as  he  did  his  Bible  preparatory  to 
a  visit  among  his  people.  And  how  often  that  suc- 
coring PucJc,  and  many  of  its  ilk — the  novel,  the 
Sunday  paper,  were  dangled  before  their  eyes  in 
scathing  denunciation  as  vanity  of  vanities,  off- 
springs of  the  devil,  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  steal- 
ing into  the  homes  to  desecrate  its  sanctity,  destroy 
its  children. 

O  ye  unknown  punster,  ye  modem  jester,  fool!  a 
paeon  to  you — ^you  who  win  the  minister's  flock,  give 
point  to  the  orator's  platitudes,  make  clever  the  din- 
ner talk,  embellish  the  scientist's  lecture,  help  the 
multitude  recover  from  the  Sunday  sermon,  coaxing 
us  to  smile  when  the  heart  is  sad — ^let  others  filch 


In  tbt  ®|)aDoti3  of  (Son.  'is 

your  wit,  hold  you  up  to  contempt;  we  praise  and 
envy  you — ^you  unsung  fools! 

To-day  was  the  occasion  of  the  Brushy  quarterly 
conference.  Marvin  and  his  pastor  tied  their  horses 
to  the  low-hanging  branches  of  a  live-oak  and  turned 
toward  the  chapel.  Two  woe-begone  figures  stood  be- 
fore the  door.  They  faced  each  other  in  conversa- 
tion, occasionally  glancing  toward  the  house  fear- 
fully, as  if  within  lurked  some  threatening  foe.  The 
ogre  was  Presiding  Elder  May;  the  uneasy  youths 
were  candidates  for  the  ministry — Will  Oliver  and 
J.  Martin  Nichols. 

Once  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  unceiled  walls, 
and  the  eye  had  grown  used  to  the  obscurity,  a  mass- 
ive, silent  form  in  the  pulpit  challenged  attention. 
The  Elder  was  broad  of  girth,  with  round  bullet  head 
of  closely  cropped  hair.  Two  ferret  eyes  looked  over 
the  round,  well-fed  cheeks,  and  from  their  outer  angle 
there  radiated  fanshaped  fields  of  weblike  wrinkles. 
The  dignity  of  his  office  sat  heavily  upon  him.  He 
was  a  good  man.  A  man  of  convictions,  though  nar- 
row ones.  Few  men  can  be  broader  than  their  hori- 
zon, and  his  was  not  broad.  His  knowledge  was 
small,  but  the  pity  of  it  was  not  in  its  smallness,  but 
in  its  wrongness.  But  his  limitations,  perhaps,  the 
better  fitted  him  for  his  sphere.  A  religious  pioneer, 
exerting  a  restraining  influence,  sowing  seed  best 
fitted  to  the  soil  he  farmed ;  but  who  can  say  how  long 


46  3n  tfie  ^ftalioto  of  ©oD^ 

those  seed  will  go  on  multiplying,  cumbering  the 
ground,  when  it  has  become  ripe  for  a  richer  sow- 
ing? 

He  rose  and  "lined"  a  hymn  in  a  deep,  sonorous 
voice.  The  congregation  sang  it  leisurely,  laggingly, 
treasuring  the  words  as  rich  morsels  under  the 
tongue.  The  couplet  finished,  he  flung  them  another, 
and  thus  antiphonally  they  slowly  plodded  through 
the  verses.  After  a  prayer,  that  in  its  comprehensive- 
ness took  in  "before  time  was,"  all  time  to  come,  all 
things  animate  and  inanimate,  up  to  and  including 
the  trembling  recruits,  the  business  of  the  day  was 
taken  up  and  dispatched.  The  important  item  was  a 
report  of  the  Elder's  and  pastor's  salaries.  Puch's 
jokes  had  made  good. 

The  candidates  were  given  seats  of  honor  facing 
the  pulpit,  and  the  examination  into  their  fitness  was 
begun.  It  was  meager  enough,  but  not  too  meager  to 
fill  one  aspirant's  soul  with  terror.  Marvin  had 
spent  many  nights  preparing  Oliver  for  this  ordeal; 
but  the  memory  of  other  failures  played  havoc  with 
any  measure  of  knowledge  that  might  have  been 
instilled. 

"Brother  Oliver,  what  is  gender  ?" 

Brother  Oliver  straightened  up,  scratching  his 
head  in  perplexity.     "Gender?  yes,  gender — who  is 

gender?     Yes,  I  know — ^gender "     He  assumed 

a  sudden  affectionate  attitude  toward  his  neighbor, 


In  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  &oU.  47 

caught  desperately  at  the  whispered  words — "gender 
— why — to  be  shore — gender.  Gender  is  the  differ- 
ence between  sex."  He  sank  back  relieved,  mopping 
his  brow  with  a  red  bandanna. 

"You  have  the  idea — ^denotes  the  distinction  in 
sex/  I  believe  is  the  way  Smith  puts  it.  Now, 
Brother  Oliver,  tell  me  to  which  gender  you  belong  V^ 

Oliver's  eyes  fairly  started  from  his  head;  he 
leaned  sidewise  again  painfully,  betrayingly.     "Me 

— ^gender — which  gender  I  belong ''  He  searched 

his  brain  in  vain.  Then  he  remembered.  Brother 
Marvin  drilled  him  on  that,  it  was  coming  back  to 
him — common — neuter — neuter — now,  which  was 
it  ?  He  became  confused,  but  at  last  looked  up  beam- 
ingly. "Gender — me  ?  Why,  to  be  shore — I'm  com- 
mon gender." 

At  last  the  examination  came  to  an  end.  Oliver's 
dream  was  realized.  He  was  licensed  to  exhort.  He 
was  cast  down  with  humility.  He  hugged  the  slip 
of  paper  giving  him  man's  permission  to  do  what 
he  believed  God  wanted  him  to  do,  but  without  which 
he  dared  not  do,  as  a  miser  would  hug  a  sack  of  gold. 
It  was  the  final,  the  unquestionable  proof  of  his  call 
— the  paper  was  in  his  pocket  and  he  could  free  his 
talent  from  its  swaddling  clothes,  throw  the  napkin 
to  the  winds ;  he  was  as  he  expected  to  be — the  hap- 
piest man  alive.  He  bubbled  over  with  gratitude. 
He  loved  everybody  and  everything. 


48  3n  tbt  9|)alioto  of  (SkiO. 


PAET   TWO. 
CHAPTER   I. 

'A  March  sun  poured  floods  of  yellow  light  over  the 
black  level  stretches  of  farmland.  The  great  oval 
dome  that  shut  down  on  it  glistened  like  blue  crys- 
tal; but  high  in  the  wide  spaces  and  over  the  land- 
scape swept  a  fierce  commotion  in  which  still  lingered 
the  bite  of  winter. 

Marvin  buttoned  his  overcoat  closer,  encouraged 
his  horse  to  quicken  his  pace,  and  wished  himself  at 
the  end  of  the  journey.  Presently  he  turned  from  the 
road  and  stopped  at  a  rude  cabin.  A  bareheaded, 
bearded  man,  followed  by  numerous  towheaded  prog- 
eny, stepped  out  the  door  at  his  approach  and  re- 
garded him  with  curious  interest. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Whiterock  schoolhouse,  and  I'm 
not  sure  Pm  on  the  right  road  ?"  Marvin  inquired. 

"Yes,  you'r  O.  K.  Keep  straight  ahead  till  you 
come  to  the  next  turn;  take  the  left  hand — it  runs 
right  to  the  door.  Something  goin'  on  over  there 
to-day  ?"  the  stranger  asked. 

"Preaching,"  Marvin  replied.    Then  it  struck  him 


In  tbt  ^I)aDota3  of  <$oD*  '^9 

that  this  man  might  be  one  of  his  flock  and  he  ought 
to  be  more  specific.  It  was  possible  he  had  not  heard 
of  his  "appointment." 

"I'm  the  new  circuit-rider,"  he  hastened  to  add. 
"I  wrote  my  steward,  Mr.  Simons,  that  I'd  preach 
there  to-day." 

"Hadn't  heard,"  said  the  other,  evidently  disap- 
pointed, turning  to  go. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  have  you  come  over  and  hear  me 
sometime,"  said  Marvin,  cordially.  Instinctively  he 
felt  that  the  man  did  not  have  an  exalted  opinion 
of  the  cloth.  It  piqued  him.  He  would  like  to  show 
him  that  his  generalization  was  based  on  too  scant  a 
showing — there  were  preachers  and  preachers. 

"Oh,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you."  The  stranger 
turned  and  faced  the  horseman  again.  "But  if  you 
want  to  know  the  truth,  Parson,  I  don't  take  no  stock 
in  religin  an'  religin  don't  take  no  stock  in  me.  You'r 
a  stranger  er  you  wouldn't  ask  Bill  Hinkle  over  to 
yer  meetin'.  I'd  stampede  yer  flock,  shore.  01' 
Parson  Hightower's  done  prayed  me  into  hell  five 
year  ago.  No,  if  you  want  to  stand  in  with  the 
pillars  fight  shy  of  Bill  Hinkle  an'  his  crowd." 

"Mr.  Hinkle,  my  name  is  Garner.  I  am  glad  I 
met  you.  I  like  your  frankness,  and  I'd  like  to  see 
more  of  you.  If  you  won't  come  to  hear  me  preach 
may  I  come  over  to  see  you  sometime  ?  I'll  promise 
not  to  talk  religion — unless  you  say  so." 


50  3n  tbt  ©fiaDoto  of  &ot, 

Hinkle  was  pleased  at  this  unexpected  friendliness. 
But  it  was  against  his  principles  to  make  any  show 
of  compromise  with  things  religious  since  he  had 
been  so  summarily  disposed  of.  Then  it  flashed  into 
his  mind  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  get  revenge 
on  his  Elisha.  By  cultivating  the  young  preacher 
he  woidd  spite  Parson  Ilightower  and  perhaps  cause 
dissension  in  the  fold. 

"Well,  now,  if  you  ain't  furd  of  the  consequences, 
you'll  find  me  roun'  ycre  most  any  day  'tendin'  to 
my  own  bizness.  Farmin'  an'  horseracin'  is  my 
lines." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Marvin.  He  rode  nearer  and 
offered  his  hand.  Hinkle  took  it,  looking  the  other 
over  dubiously.  "Goodbye,  Mr.  Hinkle,  and  you 
may  look  for  me." 

The  weeks  slipped  by.  Spring  was  stealing  over 
the  land,  and  the  hedges  and  meadows  were  veiled  in 
a  faint  green  mist.  One  evening  at  this  time,  Mar- 
vin sat  thoughtfully  at  the  window  of  his  rude  study. 
Across  the  line  of  his  vision  plowmen  moved  back 
and  forth,  back  and  forth.  He  faced  the  west  and 
as  their  gaunt,  black  figures  crept  against  the  red 
glow  of  the  sky,  he  thought  of  them,  millions  of 
others,  toiling  from  sun  to  sun,  in  heat  and  cold,  that 
they  might  feed  and  clothe  themselves  and  keep  up 
the  toil — and  in  the  end,  perhaps,  burn  in  a  lake  of 
fire  and  brimstone  forever,  for  he  had  not  yet  come 


In  tbt  @){)aDoto  of  (Son*  si 

to  question  the  dogmas  taught  at  that  ime.  He  felt 
a  great  pity  stir  within  him,  not  dreaming  that  the 
objects  of  it  were  happier  than  he.  Happy  in  their 
ignorance  and  narrowness,  for  they  were  not  con- 
scious of  either.  That  only  by  bringing  to  them 
knowledge  and  a  wider  vision  would  they  be  filled 
with  unrest  Perhaps  the  happiest  are  those  who 
keep  nearest  to  the  ground,  who  live  closest  within 
the  round  of  the  animal  functions.  But  did  God  in- 
tend that  man  should  be  happy  ? 

Marvin  rose,  put  on  his  hat,  and  struck  across  the 
fields.  During  the  months  he  had  been  in  Whiterock 
he  had  made  good  his  word  to  Bill  Hinkle.  In  fact, 
he  had  come  to  find  in  that  individuaFs  frank  orig- 
inality an  unexpected  source  of  entertainment  It 
was  toward  his  farm  that  he  now  turned  his  steps. 
Already  he  could  see  him  across  the  black  levels 
crawling  behind  his  plow. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Hinkle." 

"Hello,  Parson,"  the  other  said,  lifting  the  plow 
from  the  furrow  and  scraping  the  clinging  dirt  from 
its  point.  He  turned  it  on  its  side  and  stood  facing 
his  visitor.    "Glad  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"You  won't  let  me  interfere  with  your  work,  Mr. 
Hinkle?"  Marvin  began  tentatively. 

"Oh,  I'm  always  ready  for  an  excuse  to  take  a 
rest.  There  ain't  no  danger  of  Bill  Hinkle  ever 
workin'  hisself  to  death." 


52  an  tU  %|^aOotti  of  &ot}. 

'^Yet  they  tell  me  that  you  are  one  of  the  best 
farmers  on  Whiterock." 

There  was  a  movement  of  Hinkle's  beard  that  told 
of  a  hidden  smile. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  When  a  man  has  a  wife  and 
a  houseful  of  children  to  support  he  nacherly  does 
his  darndest,  but  he  don't  deserve  no  credit  fer  that. 
I  guess,  though,  you've  heard  a  good  many  things 
'bout  Hinkle  you  wouldn't  care  to  mention  to  his 
face?" 

"!N'o,  Mr.  Hinkle,  nothing  you  have  not  told  me." 

"Guess  ol'  Parson  Hightower  ain't  been  doin'  his 
duty,  then." 

"But  I  have  wondered,  Mr.  Hinkle,  what  you 
farmers  think  of  as  you  work  alone  all  day  in  the 
fields." 

"Well,  Parson,  I  wouldn't  like  to  slander  my 
neighbor,  so  I  couldn't  speak  fer  nobody  but  myself." 

"Then  suppose  you  speak  for  yourself?" 

"If  you  put  it  that  way,  I  reckin  I  might  'commer- 
date  you,  an'  I'm  as  'commerdatin'  as  the  next,  if  it 
don't  hit  my  pocket  too  hard.  I  don't  keep  no  tab 
on  my  headpiece,  but  I  guess  mostly  I  wonder  'bout 
the  seasons  —  if  there'U  be  too  much  rain  er  too 
little  —  how  cotton  an'  corn  will  turn  out ;  if  I'll 
make  enough  to  pay  my  store  account,  keep  the  stock 
through  the  winter  an'  feed  an'  clothe  my  family ;  an' 


3fn  tfie  ^fiaDoto  of  (S5oD»  63 

you  know  there's  a  new  mouth  an*  little  red  squirmin' 
body  comin'  regular  as  spring." 

He  looked  up,  a  sly  twinkle  in  his  eye,  to  see  how 
the  Parson  was  taking  his  confidences.  "If  my  wife 
keeps  it  up  same's  she's  been  doin'  last  ten  years, 
Hinkles  '11  be  as  plenty  as  blackbirds.     But  I  guess 

she  ain't  no  more  to  blame  than  I  am "     He 

looked  down  sheepishly  in  spite  of  his  evident  inten- 
tion of  embarrassing  the  youth.  He  kicked  his  foot 
into  a  clod.  "When  you  git  enough,  Parson,  jest 
say  so.' 

"It's  very  interesting — go  on." 

"Well,  Parson,  to  be  square  with  you,  I  think  'bout 
my  children  biggest  part  of  the  time — 'bout  their 
schoolin'  an'  what's  goin'  to  become  of  them.  Edju- 
cation  conies  higher  every  year  with  all  the  outlandish 
books  they  put  children  to  studyin'  nowaday.  Though 
I  can't  see  they'r  any  better  fer  it.  But  you  can't 
tell,  an'  I  give  'em  every  chanct — maybe  Mary  will 
turn  out  a  teacher  er  Bill  take  to  the  law  er  docterin' 
■ — an'  I  think  'bout  all  that.  Then  when  the  sun  goes 
down  an'  I  crawl  on  ol'  Jack  there  an'  start  fer  home, 
I  think  of  the  cornbread  bakin'  an'  ham  fryin'  an' 
coffee  boilin',  till  I  can  almost  taste  'em;  an'  the 
children  crowdin'  roun'  me,  remindin'  me  of  different 

sizes  of  myself,  an'  the  baby  in  my  lap,  an' "  he 

hesitated, — "an'  the  long  night  of  sleep  an'  rest — 


54  M  m  g)6aOoto  of  ©oD* 

an' "      He    burst    into    a    wide-mouth    laugh. 


"Pshaw,  Parson,  this  sounds  foolish.  I  guess  I  think 
a  little  'bout  everything  —  things  come  an'  go  in 
yer  head  till  you  can't  keep  track  of  'em.  Most  of 
the  time  I  ain't  really  thinkin';  I'm  jest  tendin'  to 
my  bizness,  watchin  the  harness,  whippin'  up  the 
horses,  turnin'  the  corners,  lookin'  at  the  dirt  curl 
off  the  plow.  Often  I  fergit  everything,  an'  when  I 
come  to  myself  it  seems  I'd  jest  woke  from  a  dream, 
an'  jest  goin'  roun'  an'  roun'  the  field  like  a  dead 
man  er  a  machine — I  guess  it's  mostly  that  way." 
He  paused,  his  face  sober.  Taking  a  fresh  chew  of 
tobacco  he  looked  up.  "That  'bout  covers  the 
ground,  Parson,  less'n  I'd  touch  on  the  subject  you 
said  we  wouldn't  discuss." 

"Religion,  you  mean  ?  Do  you  think  about  that  ?" 
"Well,  I  guess,  nacherly,  a  feller  would  think  'bout 
what's  done  put  'im  in  hell.  An'  I  don't  mind  talkin' 
to  you.  You'r  different  from  the  preachers  'bout 
yere.  Somehow  you  make  me  feel  you  really  care  a 
little  fer  Bill  Hinkle,  an'  not  jest  after  gittin'  him 
to  jine  the  church  an'  go  through  some  rigamarole  to 
save  his  soul  when  he  dies.  I  think  'bout  that  a  good 
deal,  off  an'  on,  an'  I  have  concluded  I'm  not  in- 
vestin'  much  in  the  grave.  I'm  interested  in  Bill 
Hinkle  an'  his  family  now.  Woudn't  want  to  hurt 
yer  feelin's.  Parson,  but  if  you  want  my  honest  opin- 
ion, I  don't  have  much  respect  fer  the  God  they 


3n  tht  ^liaDobi  of  <S^aD.  55 

preach  'bout  yere.  Why,  I  wouldn't  treat  a  dog  like 
He  did  that  feller  Adam  fer  eatin'  the  apple.  They 
say  He  was  so  mad  'bout  it  He  had  to  kill  a  son  to  git 
hisself  in  a  good  humor  with  the  rest  of  us  pore  devils 
who  didn't  have  a  chanct  at  the  apple.  Why,  it  would 
be  jest  as  sensible  fer  me  to  whip  all  my  ten  kids  fer 
the  fault  of  one,  not  to  speak  of  killin'  one  to  git 
myself  in  a  good  humor.  An'  it  seems  the  Son's  dyin' 
was  a  failure  after  all,  fer  you've  got  to  be  converted 
an'  baptized  an'  jine  the  church  er  you'll  be  damned 
jest  the  same.  An'  then  you'd  have  to  have  it  done 
by  all  the  churches  to  make  shore  you'd  wake  up  in 
kingdom  come.  Must  'a'  been  a  God  of  some  kind 
to  'a'  started  things,  but  I'd  stake  my  last  dollar  the 
one  that  made  this  world  an'  man  never  was  guilty 
of  no  sech  tomfoolery." 

He  paused,  but  Marvin  remained  silent. 

"I  think  ol'  Hightower  would  be  disappointed  if 
I  happened  to  miss  hell,  he's  been  perdictin'  an'  pro- 
nouncin'  curses  on  me  so  long.  You  see  it  happened 
this  way.  At  one  of  his  big  meetin's  he  ast  all  who 
wanted  to  go  to  heaven  to  stan'  up.  Well,  everybody 
stood  up  but  me  an'  a  han'ful  on  the  back  benches. 
That  seemed  to  rile  Hightower,  an'  pintin'  to  us  an' 
callin'  us  pore  deluded  fools,  he  thundered  out  if 
we  wanted  to  go  to  hell,  to  rise.  Well,  it  was  too 
great  a  chanct  to  let  slip,  an'  I  rose  up  an'  tol'  him  I 
did,  that  it  looked  like  the  other  place  was  goin'  to 


56  an  tbt  %t^tio\jo  of  (S^oD. 

be  too  crowded.  An'  to  rub  it  in,  I  ast  him  to  pray 
fer  me  to  'rive  safe.  Well,  it  'most  broke  up  the 
meetin'.  But  he  took  me  at  my  word  an'  prayed  most 
onmerciful  fer  my  eternal  damnation  in  the  fire 
that's  never  quenched — an'  somethin'  'bout  the  worm 
that  never  dies.  But  I've  got  the  joke  on  him.  I  tell 
him  I'm  shore  of  the  other  place  fer  I've  never 
knowed  one  of  his  prayers  to  be  answered.  But  we 
git  'long  first  rate — belong  to  the  same  lodge,  tell 
each  other  yarns,  an'  'casionally  I  give  him  a  dollar 
fer  the  missionary." 


Hn  ti)e  ^I)aDoU)  of  <£^dD*  57 


CHAPTEE  III. 

The  hedges  hung  wilted  under  the  vertical  rays  of 
the  August  sun,  grey  with  a  film  of  dust  that  set- 
tled on  them  from  the  highway.  The  face  of  the 
country  was  a  dark  green  expanse  of  languidly  rus- 
tling corn  and  drooping  cotton.  They  were  silent 
and  deserted  now  save  where  a  bird  panted  in  the 
shadows  of  rank  stalks  or  a  rabbit,  made  bold  by  the 
stillness,  hopped  cautiously  along  the  rows. 

Along  the  black  road,  men  on  foot  and  horseback 
crawled  slowly  through  the  white  glare  toward  a 
common  point.  This  was  Hunt's  woods,  the  scene  of 
the  annual  camp-meeting.  Here  in  the  centre  of  a 
small  clearing  stood  a  great  framework  of  tree  trunks 
covered  with  decaying  boughs  and  leaves — a  great 
elevated  brush  heap.  It  was  this  that  the  men  came 
to  rehabilitate.  Already  the  early  arrivals  squatted 
about  on  the  ground,  smoking  as  they  engaged  in 
desultory  conversation.  Two  wagons,  with  high  side- 
boards, stood  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Others 
joined  the  group  at  intervals  with  friendly  greetings 
and  bantering  remarks. 

"Well,  yere  he  comes  at  last,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
rising.     "Now,  we'll  git  to  work." 


58  3tt  tfte  SbaUoto  of  ©oti^ 

"Yes,  it's  Barton."  There  was  a  movement  of 
"welcomed  activity. 

"Well,  boys,''  said  the  individual,  coming  up;  "I 
see  you  air  watin'  as  usual.  Best  crowd  of  waiters  I 
ever  seen." 

"None  yer  jokes.  Barton,  er  we'll  send  you  home. 
We  knowed  we'd  have  to  do  everything  over  when 
you  come,  so  we  didn't  do  it.  This  ain't  a  day  to 
throw  away  yer  energy  on  extra  work." 

"Well,  that  excuse  ain't  good  no  longer.  Let's  git 
at  it.  Yer  boys  git  a  move  on  you — we'll  need  a 
couple  loads  of  bresh  time  you  git  it  yere." 

The  wagon  manned  by  two  overgrown  youths, 
rolled  into  the  woods.  The  men  under  Barton's  di- 
rections began  to  demolish  the  decayed  roof. 

"Wouldn't  like  to  be  hard  on  the  Lord's  anointed, 
but  the  last  man  that  held  forth  yere  was  a  weak 
brother,"  said  Barton,  standing  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees  and  looking  up  at  the  men. 

"Bloodsworth,  you  mean  ?  Well,  he  had  his  pints. 
"Not  every  parson  is  cut  out  fer  camp-meetin'  work. 
Then  he'd  jest  married  him  a  wife,  an'  you  can  for- 
give a  man  a  good  deal  under  them  circumstances." 

The  speaker  was  a  tall,  angular,  bony  faced  man, 
with  a  scant  beard. 

"There  you  begin  the  ol'  song,  Jones,"  said  a  little 
wiry  fellow,  from  his  perch  on  one  of  the  cross-beams, 
talking  over  an  armful  of  brush.     "Always  blamin' 


3n  tbt  ©fia Dotal  of  <eoD*  so 

it  on  the  wimin.  Anyway  you  can't  make  that  excuse 
fer  Brother  Garner." 

"Ko;  an'  I  doubt  if  I  ever  will,  Banks.  There's 
a  man  that  thinks  of  nothin'  but  savin'  souls — then 
he's  too  sensible.  I  think  it  'uz  time  the  conference 
was  sendin'  us  some  one  who  can  mix  it  with  the 
other  preachers.  ^N'ot  a  parson  that  makes  Whiterock 
gits  better  crowds  'n  he  does." 

"Well,  you  know  my  opinion  of  Garner.  He's  one 
in  a  thousand.  Hadn't  been  he's  jest  beginnin'  we'd 
never  got  'im,  an'  it'll  be  jest  like  'em  to  move  him  at 
the  end  of  the  year,"  said  Barton. 

A  little  stocky  man,  with  a  mop  of  white  beard, 
interrupted  in  a  cracked  voice. 

"Sensible  er  not,  an'  with  all  his  vartues,  I  guess 
you'll  find  Garner's  a  man.  An'  Jones'll  find  he'll 
be  fallin'  in  love  an'  maryin'  like  the  rest  of  us  as  be 
nacheral  men " 

"Right  you  air  Hunt,"  said  the  voice  from  the 
roof.  "They  never  git  so  wrapped  up  in  savin'  souls 
that  somebody  in  the  shape  of  a  female  don't  come 
'long,  sooner  er  later,  an'  wake  up  the  flesh.  I  ain't 
sayin'  it's  anything  agin  him.  The  Lord  made  us 
that  way — preachers  same  as  the  rest.  Then  the 
Scripchers  says  ^increase  an'  multiply.'  Men  like 
Jones  yere  don't  count  Why  the  good  Lord  lets 
sech  specimens  be  bom  is  a  miracle  of  extravagance — 
jest  a  wastin'  of  his  power.    An'  what  'ud  become  of 


60  3n  tbt  @)i)atiDb]  of  <9oD« 

the  race  if  we  all  shirked  our  duty  like  he  does,  the 
Lord  only  knows." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  approvals. 

"Good  thing  you  air  out  of  reach,  Jim  Banks ;  an' 
a  good  Christian  you  air,  slanderin  'a  man  to  his 
face.  It  makes  me  blush  fer  you.  If  you  knowed  it 
you'r  better  cut  out  fer  pilin'  bresh  then  usin'  yer 
headpiece." 

What  might  have  been  an  interminable  personal 
bandinage  w^as  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  the  wagons 
piled  high  with  freshly  lopped  boughs.  When  they 
were  emptied,  the  conversation  was  set  goin'  by  one 
of  the  workers  heretofore  silent. 

"Speakin'  of  Brother  Garner,  I  guess  Brother  Bar- 
ton 'bout  took  his  measure — he's  one  in  a  thousand. 
To  know  a  man  you  want  to  live  with  him  when  he 
ain't  got  on  his  Sunday  clothes.  Well,  I've  lived 
with  him  all  week  an'  listened  to  him  preach  on  Sun- 
day, an'  he  preaches  better  in  the  home  than  in  the 
pulpit  If  I  ever  seen  a  man  of  prayer  he's  one. 
Many's  the  time  my  wife's  gone  to  his  room,  thinkin' 
he's  out,  an'  foun'  him  on  his  knees.  An'  he  pours 
over  his  books  day  an'  night.  Weren't  fer  sustainin' 
grace  he  couldn't  stand  the  strain.  Sally  says  if  she 
ever  gits  religin  it'll  be  at  his  meetin'.  Yes,  if  the 
Lord  don't  bless  his  labors,  the  fault  will  be  with  the 
Lord,  fer  he's  shorely  a  marvel  of  grace." 

"An'  you  do  right  in  tellin'  us  Hays.    It  ain't  no 


In  tU  ^tiaDoto  of  aoQ«  6i 

betrayin'  of  confidence,  an'  it  do  raise  a  man  in  yer 
estimation  to  hear  them  as  knows  'im  best  speak  high 
of  him.  An'  one  could  'a'  gussed  from  his  sermons 
he's  a  man  of  prayer — though  't  ain't  always  fine 
words  that  makes  fine  deeds." 

"An'  yet,"  said  Hunt;  "Parson  Hightower  says 
his  sermons  lack  meat.  He  don't  stress  the  doctrines ; 
though  he  do  tell  movin'  stories  an'  make  you  see 
pichers.  It's  doctrine  that  counts.  Without  'em  we'd 
might  as  well  belong  to  any  other  of  the  sects.  What 
our  youngsters  need  to  bring  'em  to  repentance  is  fire 
an'  brimstone.  They  w^ant  to  be  dangled  over  hell 
till  they  smell  it  burnin'.  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  agin 
Brother  Marvin's  preachin',  fer  it's  shorely  edifyin', 
but  it  lacks  the  doctrines.  But  he's  young  an'  will 
likely  take  'em  on  in  time." 

"Well,  I  guess  the  main  thing  is  savin'  souls,  an' 
if  pichers  an'  stories  w^ill  do  it,  I  say  let's  have  'em. 
Parson  Hightower's  had  his  try,  an'  you  can't  say 
he  ain't  give  us  plenty  doctrine  an'  hell  fire.  Why, 
he's  already  prayed  Hinkle " 

"To  the  devil,"  broke  in  a  deep  voice  behind  the 
men.  They  looked  up  in  consternation.  They  were 
superstitious  enough  to  feel  uneasy  at  the  unlooked 
for  interruption.  Banks,  from  his  eminence,  whose 
outlook  Avas  limited  to  the  trees  and  the  outlying  fields, 
was  taken  so  by  surprise,  thinking  the  voice  came 
from  the  sky,  that  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell  head- 


62  an  tht  @{)aDoto  of  (S^oQ. 

long  into  the  brush.  But  the  men's  incipient  fear  was 
quickly  allayed.  Turning,  they  discovered  Hinkle 
at  the  edge  of  the  woods  writhing  in  silent  laughter. 

"Talk  of  angels  an'  you'll  hear  the  rustle  of  their 
wings,"  said  Jones,  facetiously,  as  Hinkle  ap- 
proached. 

"You  look  more  like  you'd  smelt  the  breath  of  the 
forked-tongue.  Though  you  know  I  don't  believe  in 
neither." 

"Now,  we'll  have  it,"  said  Banks,  recovering  his 
feet  and  flinging  a  bough  at  the  newcomer,  as  he 
peered  down  from  his  perch. 

"Hello,  Banks,"  said  Hinkle,  glancing  upward  to 
the  speaker  outlined  against  a  white  cloud.  "I'd 
think  you'd  feel  embarrassed  up  so  close  to  heaven  ?" 

"None  yer  irreverence,  Hinkle,"  said  Jones. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  irreverence  after  what  I've 
heard.  I  ain't  questionin'  the  powerfulness  an'  good 
intentions  of  yer  God.  I  ain't  sayin'  He  can't  save 
souls  through  Bloodsworth  an'  Hightower,  with  er 
without  doctrine,  which  is  what  you  do.  You  seem 
to  have  great  faith  in  the  Lord  usin'  Garner  in  savin' 
the  lost  as  you  call  'em,  but  what  you  mean  is  that 
you've  great  faith  in  Parson  Garner  usin'  the  Lord. 
The  power  is  all  in  the  man.  Yer  God  can't  git  up  a 
whimper  'thout  'im " 

"Blasphemy,  blasphemy  I    Wonder  the  Lord  don't 


Jn  tbt  ^I)aDott3  of  ®oD*  ea 

strike  you  down  in  yer  tracks,  Bill  Hinkle,"  pro- 
tested old  man  Barton. 

"Fer  sayin'  what  you  think  ?  But  he  don't — takes 
a  man  to  do  that,  an'  none  of  you  air  goin'  to  let  God 
use  you  that  way — ^you  know  Hinkle  too  well.  I 
notice  God  don't  make  you  do  what  you  don't 
like " 

''Give  'im  rope,"  interrupted  Barton;  "he'll  hang 
hisself." 

"Course,  I'm  standin'  yere  sizzlin'  'cause  I  like  it," 
said  Banks,  sarcastically. 

"What  makes  you  do  it  ?" 

"The  hope  of  savin'  sinners  like  you  from  a  hotter 
place  than  this." 

"Good  fer  you,  Banks,"  said  Jones,  elated.  "Give 
'im  ernother.' 

"Down  at  Greenville  Crossin'  while  ago,"  went  on 
Hinkle,  unheedingly,  "I  passed  Elder  Savage  an'  a 
batch  of  Campbellites  cleanin'  out  the  long  hole,  an' 
when  I  ast  'em  what  they'z  doin'  in  the  water  they 
said  jest  what  you  did.  Banks,  'Goin'  to  save  ten 
sinners  like  you,  Hinkle';  an'  the  Baptists  up  at 
Union,  an'  the  Hardshells  over  at  Firm  Foundation, 
an'  the  Presbyterians  on  Everlastin'  Hill,  an'  the 
Sanctificationists  over  on  the  prairie,  air  all  goin'  to 
open  up  'long  the  same  lines.  All  savin'  sinners  an' 
Samnin'  everybody  that  ain't  saved  their  way,  an'  it's 


6^  3n  tbt  &i)atioto  of  <S^oD. 

all  the  doin's  of  the  Lord  to  let  them  tell  it.  Now, 
suppose  Bill  Hinkle  takes  a  notion  to  be  saved, 
where'd  he  go?  Which  outfit  can  give  him  a  clear 
title  to  kingdom  come  ?  Which  can  give  Bill  Hinkle 
what  he  ain't  already  got  ?  Who'd  trust  Hinkle  any 
quicker  after  he  got  up  from  the  mourner's  bench 
shoutin'  glory,  er  crawled  out  of  the  creek  with  salva- 
tion drippin'  from  him,  er  went  up  respectable  an' 
give  his  han'  to  the  parson,  believin'  he's  one  of  the 
elected  an'  chosen  from  before  the  foundation " 

"Bill  you'r  a  regular  Jannes  an'  Jambres  kind  of 
a  feller — settin'  yerself  agin  the  truth,"  said  Jones. 

"I'm  not  'quainted  with  the  team,"  said  Hinkle, 
sarcastically ;  "but  I'm  glad  to  hear  I  ain't  the  only 
sensible  man  hereabout." 

"Bill,  you've  missed  yer  callin' — ^you  's  cut  out  fer 
a  spouter;  but  you  sing  a  mighty  ol'  song.  I  guess 
there's  ten  thousand  in  hell  to-day  that  said  jest  what 
you've  said,  an'  repentin'  when  it's  too  late,  jest  as 
you'll  do,"  said  Hays,  reprovingly. 

"Yes,  Bill,  you  ought  to  rig  up  an  arbor  an'  start 
a  meetin'  of  yer  own — you'd " 

"Too  many  fools,"  Hinkle  returned  with  good 
humored  hopelessness. 

"Present  company  excepted,  of  course,"  said  Jones. 

"No ;  there's  no  fools  yere,  an'  you'd  never  find  it 
out  if  there  was,  Jones.  But  this  will  never  do  men," 
he  broke  off ;  "argyfyin'  never  built  a  tabernickle  yet. 


In  tbt  ^dDotai  of  &on.  ^ 

Let's  git  to  work,"  and  he  began  tossing  up  the  boughs. 

"You'r  the  queerest  feller  I  ever  seen,  Bill,"  said 
Banks.  "You  don't  believe  half  you  say.  Yere  you 
been  a  hour  makin'  light  of  the  Lord's  work  an'  now 
you  turn  right  roun'  an'  begin  to  help  it  on." 

"I  ain't  doin'  this  fer  the  Lord;  it's  fer  Garner. 
He's  a  man.  I  take  stock  in  men.  I'll  bet  my  ol'  hat 
he  knocks  the  socks  off  any  meetin'  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Yes,  I'm  bettin'  on  Garner.  When  a  man  like 
that  gits  hoi'  of  God  he  does  something  with  'im." 

"Bill  Hinkle,  that's  the  worst  word  Brother  Gar- 
ner's got  yet.  I'm  'fraid  something  must  be  wrong 
with  'im  after  all.    I  hope  not,  but " 

The  arrival  of  another  load  of  brush  turned  the 
conversation  into  other  channels. 

All  the  afternoon  they  worked  industriously  con- 
structing the  primitive  temple,  moved  by  the  same 
instincts,  impulses,  that  inspired  men  ten  centuries 
before  to  build  rude  altars  and  offer  sacrifices. 

At  last  the  sun  blazed  in  its  firey  course  down  the 
heavens,  dropped  a  red  disk  in  the  green  fields,  rolled 
from  sight,  leaving  behind  it  a  bloody  wake ;  but  not 
more  sanguinary  than  the  path  over  which  had 
travelled  the  religion  of  these  men. 

"Boys,  that's  the  best  arbor  we've  ever  had  at 
Whiterock,"  said  Barton,  puffing  a  cloud  of  smoke 
from  his  freshly  lighted  pipe. 


66  3n  tbt  ^baDota)  of  <S^oD* 

"An'  the  best  man  you  ever  had  at  Whiterock  '11 
preach  in  it,"  returned  Hinkle. 

"An'  the  devil's  own  '11  be  yere  to  hear  'im,"  said 
Jones. 

"Jones  fer  once  you  speak  better'n  you  know,"  said 
Hinkle. 

"Well,  I  hope  Brother  Garner'll  convert  'em — 
'long  with  Hinkle,"  said  Banks,  conciliatingly. 

They  began  to  disperse.  Rising  with  slow,  stiff- 
ened movements  they  walked  off  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  singly,  in  groups;  their  pipes  trailing  an  acrid 
incense  on  the  air. 

The  arbor  stood  a  huge  top-heavy  spider;  its  roof 
projecting  on  the  sky  a  thousand  gasping,  writhing 
tentacles. 


3n  tfie  ©ftaDoto  of  (SoD*  67 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  camp-meeting  had  been  in  progress  some  days. 
The  arbor  that  was  the  pride  of  Barton  could  no 
longer  shelter  the  throngs  that  nightly  were  drawn 
to  it.  He  and  his  satelites  were  exultant.  Already 
they  were  winning  people  from  the  competing  serv- 
ices a  few  miles  distant  by  force  of  their  greater 
crowds,  enthusiasm  and  popularity  of  their  preacher. 
To-night  Marvin  sought  the  seclusion  of  the 
woods  for  a  season  of  prayer.  As  he  knelt  in  the 
dark  there  floated  on  the  air  the  hum  and  bustle  of 
the  camp — fragments  of  conversation,  cries  and 
laughter  of  children,  neighing  of  horses,  the  rattle  of 
cooking  utensils.  Far  across  the  fields,  where,  the 
last  few  days,  there  seemed  to  brood  a  mystical,  faith- 
compelling  sombreness,  to  those  who  could  see  and 
feel,  there  sounded  the  rumble  of  wagons,  the  quick 
beat  of  hurrying  hoofs,  the  steed  of  some  wild  youth 
who  hastened  to  the  scene  of  the  religious  exhibition. 
Perhaps  the  personality  of  the  preacher,  the  crowd, 
the  sermon,  the  presence  of  a  face,  would  win  his 
allegiance  and  faith,  and  make  of  him  a  life-long 
partisan  of  a  dogma  the  import  of  which  he  would 
never  understand. 


ed  Jn  tfie  %|)aDoto  of  &ot. 

But  the  notes  of  the  activities  going  on  about  him 
struck  upon  an  unresponsive  ear;  Marvin's  whole 
being  was  concentrated  in  a  mighty  besiegment  of 
the  All-Powerful.  He  demanded  a  definite  token  of 
recognition.  He  must  have  tangible  proof  from  the 
Unseen.  The  burden  of  his  prayer  was,  "Give  me 
fifty  souls — give  me  Bill  Hinkle — to-night."  He 
looked  up,  his  wide-open  eyes  straining  into  the 
dark.  Through  rifts  in  the  foliage  he  saw  a  patch 
of  sky,  one  white  star  glinted  in  his  face.  He  gazed 
at  it  as  if  it  might  be  the  eye  of  God;  then,  like  a 
throb  of  the  pulses,  the  supreme  egotism  and  pre- 
sumption of  his  demands  flashed  through  his  mind. 
He,  an  obscure,  ignorant  youth,  who  was  an  object  of 
interest  to  only  a  few  hundred  people,  to  a  father  and 
mother  miles  away,  seeking  to  influence,  put  to  the 
test,  the  God  who  created  the  universe,  flung  the 
worlds  and  planets  into  space  and  held  them  eternally 
in  their  orbits.  Could  that  being  heed  any  cry  he 
might  send  up  from  this  silent  spot  in  the  woods  ?  He 
fell  on  his  face  groaning  in  spirit  against  the  thought. 
It  was  the  devil  assaulting  him.  He  remembered  the 
temptation  on  the  mount,  and  cried,  "Get  thee  behind 
me,  satan."  Persuaded  himself  that  he  did  not 
doubt;  insisted  to  his  soul  that  he  did  have  faith, 
that  God  would  hear  him.  As  he  lay  on  the  damp 
mould,  he  found  himself  listening  to  the  small  sounds 
in  the  woods — the  birds  flitting  in  the  treetops ;  rab- 


In  tfte  §){)aDotP  of  aoD»  69 

bits  hopping  on  the  dead  leaves ;  popping  of  branches, 
that  began  to  straighten  with  the  cool  of  night.  He 
felt  something  cold  on  his  hand  and  drew  it  back  with 
an  instinctive  sense  of  fear.  Then  an  awkward  pup 
of  precocious  growth  began  to  jump  fawningly  onto 
his  knee.  It  pleased  him  to  take  this  unlooked  for  ap- 
pearance as  a  hopeful  omen.  The  insistent  friendli- 
ness of  the  pup  appealed  to  his  mood.  God  had 
made  it  too.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  kinship, 
of  a  tenderness  going  out  to  it,  going  out  to  all 
created  things.  In  his  soul  there  throbbed  an  all- 
compassing  love.  He  drew  the  wriggling  cub  to  him 
and  pressed  it  a  moment  to  his  bosom.  Ah,  the  dumb 
animals.  What  part  did  they  play  in  the  plans  of 
God  ?  Were  they  left  helpless  to  a  blind  fate  ?  Did 
God  not  concern  himself  with  the  lowest  of  his 
creatures  ?  Did  he  give  them  no  instinct  of  worship  ? 
no  voice  to  speak  to  him  ?  to  tell  of  their  woes  ?  to  ask 
for  his  intervention?  Was  it  to  the  powerful  alone 
he  gave  ear,  laid  bare  his  arm,  reversed  his  laws, 
worked  his  miracles  ?  Were  the  poor,  helpless  things 
that  creep  and  crawl  at  the  mercy  of  all  the  higher 
orders  above  them?  He  rose  and  hastened  from  the 
trees.    He  must  get  away  from  his  thoughts. 

When  he  reached  the  open  he  could  see  the  throng 
already  surging  into  the  tabernacle,  the  torch-lights 
throwing  their  shadows  in  grotesque  shapes  against 
the  foliage  and  dark  expanse  of  sky.     A  subdued 


70  3n  tfte  SiftaDPto  of  (©oD* 

rumble  of  voices  rose  from  the  multitude.  There 
floated  on  the  air  the  odor  of  fresh  dirt,  burning 
wood,  decaying  vegetation,  stale  food,  and  an  acrid 
smell  of  animals.  In  the  dark  sounded  the  stamping 
of  feet,  neighing  of  horses,  staccato  yelp  of  dogs, 
prowling  for  the  oifal  of  the  camp. 

At  Marvin's  appearance  some  one  started  a  camp- 
meeting  tune  that  was  eagerly  caught  up  by  the  wor- 
shipers and  grew  in  volume  till  it  drowned  all  other 
sounds.  When  it  was  finished,  he  rose  and  stood  a 
moment  silently  looking  down  upon  the  upturned 
faces,  his  tall  form  a  black  silhouette  against  the  glare 
of  light.  There  was  an  expectant  hush.  Then  he 
spoke ;  his  clear  magnetic  voice  ringing  musically.  In 
simple,  forceful  words  he  pictured  vividly,  as  with 
stroke  of  skilled  brush,  the  doom  of  the  lost,  the 
heaven  of  the  saved.  In  an  earnestness  tender  with 
solicitude  he  pleaded  with  the  sinners  to  come  to  the 
mourners'  bench  and  seek  salvation.  Talked  like  a 
mother  persuading  a  wayward  child.  So  sensitive 
was  his  imagination  to  its  own  images,  he  saw  them 
lost — burning  forever  in  unquenchable  fires.  How 
he  yearned  to  see  them  saved.  Tears  began  to  roll 
down  his  cheeks;  with  outstretched  arms,  his  body 
tense  with  vibrant  emotion,  he  sobbed,  ^^Come." 

The  effect  of  the  word  was  electric.  He  paused. 
There  was  a  moment  of  intense  silence,  then  the 


In  tfie  S)6aDoto  of  <5oD*  W 

congregation  burst  with  a  mightj  assaulting  voic« 
into  song: 

"Oh,  turn,  sinner  turn,  turn,  sinner  turn, 
May  the  Lord  help  you  turn, 
Oh,  turn,  sinner  turn,  why  will  you  die  ?" 

The  pentients  began  to  hurry  forward  with 
blanched  faces,  staring  eyes,  weeping  convulsively. 
Falling  at  the  benches  they  cried  out  as  if  in  mortal 
fear,  begging  for  mercy,  groaning,  agonizing  in 
shrieks  and  wails  that  broke  like  a  bedlam  through 
the  din  of  song. 

Then  above  the  multitude  towered  a  great  shaggy 
head,  and  Bill  Hinkle  came  forward  with  steady 
tread,  unabashed,  and,  shaking  Marvin^s  hand, 
dropped  in  the  straw.  Following  close  upon  his  heels 
came  ten,  twenty,  thirty  young  men,  and  knelt  about 
him.  The  religious  stared  in  amazement.  For  an 
instant  they  forgot  to  sing.  There  broke  in  every 
direction  shouts  of  exultation:  "Thank  he  Lord," 
"Glory  to  God,"  "The  devil  trimbles,"  from  Parson 
Hightower.  Someone  started  a  new  tune  and  they 
caught  it  up  like  things  possessed : 

"Shout^  shout,  we're  gainin'  groun', 
Oh,  glory  halleujah. 
The  love  of  Grod  is  a-comin*  down, 
Oh,  glory  halleujah." 


7^  3n  tfje  ©fiaBoto  of  (Sotr* 

The  saved  pushed  their  way  among  the  mourners — 
trampled  them,  shouted  unintelligable  words  in  their 
ears,  beat  them  on  the  back,  smothered  them  in  their 
eagerness  to  save.  Barton  and  Jones  were  beside 
themselves.  The  Campbellites  were  routed.  There 
had  never  been  anything  like  it  at  Whiterock.  If 
Hinkle  "come  through"  his  influence  would  sweep  a 
hundred  into  the  fold.  They  went  wild  in  anticipa- 
tion. They  hugged  each  other,  pounded  each  other, 
jumped  on  the  benches  and  shouted  "glory"  at  the 
top  of  their  voices.  The  women  rushed  about  scream- 
ing, throwing  themselves  in  the  straw,  fainting,  going 
into  trances. 

Marvin  moved  about  carried  out  of  himself — he 
felt  possessed  of  superhuman  power.  He  had  but  to 
grasp  the  hand  of  a  penitent,  lift  him  to  his  feet,  look 
into  his  eye  and  tell  him  he  was  saved,  to  see  him 
break  into  rejoicing,  crying  out  his  deliverance ;  some 
declaring  they  could  see  into  the  very  throne  of 
heaven,  see  the  great  king  seated  upon  it,  hear  the 
angels  singing  songs  of  rejoicing. 

Sally  Hays  was  one  of  the  penitents.  As  Marvin 
took  her  hand  she  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom  in 
passionate  abandon,  clinging  to  him  convulsively. 
Marvin  freed  himself  as  best  he  could  and  led  her  to 
her  mother.  But  again  and  again  she  returned, 
throwing  her  arms  about  him,  looking  into  his  eyes, 
shouting  his  praises,  her  gratitude. 


In  tbt  ^{)aDoUi  of  (S^oD«  73 

Then  Bill  H inkle  rose,  flinging  his  arms  right  and 
left,  sweeping  all  obstructions  down  before  him.  He 
grasped  his  friends  and  enemies,  impartially,  in  his 
bear-like  embrace,  belaboring  them  unmercifully. 
They  bore  it  heroically  —  Hinkle's  conversion  was 
unmistakably  orthodox.  The  young  men  broke  into 
like  demonstrations.  But  as  Marvin  stood  among 
them  proudly,  triumphantly,  he  suddenly  fell  sober; 
staggered  like  one  dazed  by  an  unexpected  blow.  A 
terrible  truth  was  forced  upon  him.  The  odor  of 
spirits  that  were  not  holy  was  strong  upon  the  air. 

Marvin  had  thought  he  and  God  alone  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  great  work.  But  Hinkle  knew 
better. 


74  an  ti)e  @i!)aDota)  of  &ol}. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Marvin  took  his  seat  beside  Sally.  Mr.  Hays  gave 
the  sleepy  horses  a  lash,  and  they  rolled  into  the  lane. 
Marvin  still  lived  in  the  incidents  of  the  night. 
Surely  his  faith  had  been  justified,  his  prayers  an- 
swered; yet  he  was  overcome  with  uneasiness  and 
misgiving.  A  reaction  had  set  in  that  left  him 
supremely  dejected.  His  success  had  been  his  un- 
doing. It  had  brought  him,  instead  of  confidence  and 
assurance,  confusion  and  doubt.  Perhaps  it  was  not 
wise  to  seek  to  deflect  the  Ruling  Powers  from  their 
commonplace  course  of  activity.  But  had  he  ?  When 
the  religious  frenzy  was  raging  at  its  zenith,  when 
souls  were  being  saved  by  the  score,  the  thought  was 
suddenly  borne  in  upon  him:  Is  this  God's  work? 
does  he  save  in  this  way  ?  Was  not  it  a  fanatical  out- 
burst of  pure  animal  emotion?  Why  should  God 
plunge  men  into  uncontrolable  madness  so  that  they 
would  wound  themselves,  trample  upon  others,  to  be- 
speak to  them  his  forgiveness  ?  He  sought  to  dismiss 
the  thought  as  a  temptation  of  the  evil  one.  All  his 
life  he  had  heard  good  men  and  women  speak  of  their 
entrance  upon  the  religious  life  through  similar  ex- 
periences.   Perhaps  God  allowed  good  to  come  out  of 


3n  tbt  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oD*  Y5 

evil  in  his  great  compassion  for  human  ignorance  and 
weakness.  But  the  doubt  came  again  and  again.  He 
knew  nothing  of  psychology,  hypnotic  suggestion  and 
kindred  subjects,  and  so  could  not  seek  in  them  an 
explanation  of  the  phenomena. 

Then  he  thought  of  Bill  Hinkle's  unaccoimtable 
conversion ;  of  the  young  men  who  flocked  after  him ; 
of  the  odor  of  whiskey.  What  could  be  Hinkle's 
motive  ?  Would  he  stop  at  no  irreverence,  no  humilia- 
tion of  himself,  to  please  him  ?  Surely  God  would 
not  resort  to  such  methods  to  answer  prayer,  compass 
his  ends.  Did  God  have  anything  to  do  with  it  after 
all  ? — no  more  than  the  puppy  that  licked  his  hand  in 
the  dark. 

When  the  horses  stopped  at  the  gate,  Marvin  helped 
Sally  and  Mrs.  Hays  to  the  ground,  and  hastened  to 
his  room.  He  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  sank  into  a 
chair  in  deep  depression  of  spirit,  vaguely  conscious 
of  the  movements  about  him.  He  could  hear  the 
women  preparing  for  bed;  the  noises  at  the  barn, 
where  Mr.  Hays  put  up  his  team;  the  rattle  of  corn 
in  the  trough  as  he  threw  them  their  belated  supper ; 
the  slamming  of  the  barn  door.  He  traced  his  move- 
ments as  he  approached  the  house  and  entered  his 
wife's  room.  Then  there  was  silence.  He  rose,  lit  a 
candle  and  began  to  undress  slowly,  moving  hesitat- 
ingly, indefinately,  about  the  room.  At  last  he  sat 
down  in  his  night  shirt,  his  head  drooping  forward, 


T6  3n  tfie  S){)aDoto  of  (Soft* 

his  eyes  on  the  spot  where  he  was  accustomed  to  kneel 
before  retiring.  His  mind  began  to  search  mechan- 
ically for  petitions  he  would  address  to  God.  It 
seemed  that  the  generosity  of  that  being  had  estopped 
him.  He  would  have  to  make  larger  demands.  He 
did  not  feel  equal  to  it;  his  enthusiasm  was  gone — 
his  spirit  cold  and  lifeless.  His  mood  puzzled  him. 
He  felt  he  ought  to  be  alarmed,  but  was  not.  After 
the  high  tension  in  which  he  had  lived  the  past  days, 
it  came  as  a  welcomed  change. 

As  he  sat  thus,  he  became  aware  of  a  movement  at 
his  back.  Some  one  had  entered  the  room.  He 
looked  quickly  around.  A  white-robed  figure  glided 
across  the  floor,  and  Sally  stood  before  him,  her  eyes 
staring  wildly,  her  boson  rising  and  falling  convul- 
sively. She  threw  herself  upon  him  and  cried  noise- 
lessly on  his  breast,  her  lips  against  his  cheek.  A 
great  pity  for  her  rose  up  within  him,  mastered  him. 
He  thought  only  of  saving  the  girl  from  herself,  of 
sparing  her  the  humiliation  that  he  knew  would  come 
with  the  morning.  He  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  pushed 
her  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door.  For  some 
minutes  he  stood  leaning  weak  and  trembling  against 
the  wall,  then  there  was  a  sudden  tumultious  response 
of  passion.  His  blood  began  to  burn  through  his 
veins  with  made  impulse.  He  could  still  feel  the 
warm  embrace,  the  touch  of  naked  flesh  on  naked 
flesh ;  the  animal  had  at  last  responded  to  the  animal. 


In  tfie  ©fiaDoto  of  <SoB*  17 

He  felt  himself  a  fool — a  weakling,  effeminate.  He 
turned  to  the  door,  his  hand  on  the  knob — it  was  not 
yet  too  late.  Here  at  last  was  an  impulse  that  could 
be  calmed,  that  could  find  its  answer  and  justification. 
The  door  opened  to  his  pressure — from  the  dark  there 
broke  on  his  ear  suppressed,  muffled  sobs.  He  closed 
the  door  and  falling  on  his  knees  tried  to  pray. 
Again  he  felt  the  need  of  God.  Long  he  lay  with  his 
face  to  the  bare  floor,  muttering  incoherently. 


78  3n  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  (©oD^ 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"I  tell  you,  I've  had  a  tough  time  of  it,"  said  J. 
Martin  Nichols,  boisterously  confidential.  "Worked 
my  brain  like  a  Trojan."  He  had  indefinite  ideas 
of  Trojan  activities,  but  liked  to  make  the  impression 
that  he  had  a  wide  acquaintance  with  literature,  and 
fell  frequently  into  scholarly  allusions.  "You  know 
I  followed  one  of  the  biggest  preachers  in  the  confer- 
ence— a  regular  Demosthenese.  He  had  spoiled  the 
people  for  anything  but  the  very  best.  And  there  I 
was.  You  can  imagine  what  a  time  I  had.  l^ot  a 
conversion — camp-meeting  a  regular  frost.  The 
spiritual  atmosphere  at  Post  Oak  is  down  to  zero. 
Nothing  but  a  bishop  would  satisfy  them  af terMcVoy. 
If  you  want  a  snap — follow  some  fellow  that  can't 
preach  no  better'n  a  calf,  that's  made  a  muddle  of 
things  till  the  people's  disgusted — then  it's  a  walk 
over.  You  may  not  preach  a  little  bit,  but  it's  so 
much  better  than  they're  used  to  they'll  praise  you 
to  the  sky  and  shell  out  the  money  like  water.  Any- 
body can  succeed  in  them  circumstances." 

Marvin  ignored  the  evident  hint  at  the  conditions 
under  which  he  had  labored ;  in  fact  he  was  too  indif- 
ferent to  be  moved  to  resentment.     But  he  was  con- 


3n  tfie  Sftanoto  of  aoD.  ro 

scious  of  a  feeling  of  disappointment.  He  had  envied 
!N'ichols  and  Oliver,  believing  that  their  entrance  into 
the  ministry  was  free  from  mixed  motives.  They 
at  least  had  the  single  eye ;  were  moved  solely  by  the 
love  of  the  work.  He  regretted  these  frank  confi- 
dences, but  he  could  not  turn  away  and  he  could  not 
stop  his  friend. 

"But  I'm  up  on  the  apportionment,"  Nichols  went 
on  exultantly.  "And  let  me  tell  you — I've  learned 
already  that's  the  main  thing.  You  can  save  souls  by 
the  hundred,  preach  like  a  Cicero,  but  if  you  don't 
rustle  the  money,  you're  no  good.  I've  had  my  eyes 
skinned,  I  tell  you,  and  the  sooner  you  catch  on  the 
better.  If  you  don't  want  to  starve  half  your  life  on 
some  Cross  Timber  mission,  stand  in  with  the  Elder. 
Let  me  tell  you  how — ^get  the  money.  Learn  to 
preach,  but  first  learn  to  collect  if  you  want  to  preach 
where  it's  worth  while."  He  edged  closer,  grasping 
the  lapel  of  Marvin's  coat.  "Yes,  I  have  everything 
in  full,  but,  between  us,  I  had  to  take  ten  dollars  out 
of  my  salary  to  do  it.  How  you  making  it  ?  Ain*t 
heard  a  word  from  you  for  months." 

As  Marvin  listened  to  Nichol's  bluster,  he  found 
himself  wondering  if  the  career  upon  which  he  had 
entered  so  reluctantly  was,  after  all,  simply  a  matter 
of  livelihood,  salary — a  scramble  for  the  easy  place 
and  best  pay?  He  had  not  come  yet  to  know  that 
salary  is  a  standard  by  which  man's  ability  and  use- 


80  3n  tbe  S^ftaDoto  of  <5od* 

fulness  are  measured.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  the  large 
salary  that  men  covert,  scheme  and  fight  for,  but  the 
larger  usefulness  and  responsibility  that  go  with  it. 
A  kind  of  altruistic  egotism  justifies  their  aspirations 
and  efforts. 

He  regarded  his  companion  in  mild  surprise;  his 
disappointment  slowly  deepened  into  contempt.  Ever 
after  he  thought  of  him  as  shallow,  cheap. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  church  had  been  improvised 
a  book-stall,  on  which  were  displayed  Bibles,  hymnals, 
theological  and  religious  works  of  the  denomination. 
It  was  an  attractive  display — the  velvety  black  covers 
and  bright  red  and  gold  edges.  An  odor  of  printer's 
ink  hovered  in  the  air,  touching  the  imagination  with 
visions  of  long  hours  in  close  intimacy  with  clean 
pages  and  quickening  thoughts  of  a  brain  long  since 
crumbled  into  dust.  Here  was  immortality  incar- 
nated in  dead  cold  paper  and  ink.  The  flash  of  the 
eye  and  the  thrill  of  the  voice  were  gone,  but  the 
spirit  still  spoke  with  undying  vitality. 

Here,  Marvin  was  attracted  one  day  by  a  striking 
personage  who  stood  above  a  lot  of  books  that  hereto- 
fore had  not  caught  his  eye.  He  stopped  to  take  a 
closer  survey  of  the  man.  He  was  of  medium  build, 
of  plethoric  habit,  and  his  person  seemed  to  radiate  a 
compelling  magnetism.  A  silk  hat  set  jauntily  on  a 
round  head  of  closely  cropped  hair.  In  his  restless 
eyes  there  shone  a  good-humored  twinkle.     He  was 


M  tht  ^liaDoto  of  aoO«  31 

evidently  on  the  best  of  terms  with  himself  and  the 
world.  Marvin  made  inquiry,  and  was  glad  to  learn 
that  he  looked  upon  the  well-known,  popular  and  ver- 
satile Doctor  Hill,  of  whom  he  had  heard  much  and 
worshipped  from  afar.  He  drew  nearer  as  if  to  touch 
the  hem  of  his  garment.  The  Doctor  was  talking  to  a 
crowd  that  now  thronged  him.  Marvin  listened,  eager 
to  treasure  any  pearl  that  might  fall  from  his  eloquent 
lips. 

"Yes,  brethren,  take  my  word  for  it,  it'll  save  twice 
the  price  in  doctor's  bills.  I  guarantee  three  chapters 
will  cure  the  worst  case  of  blues,  melancholy,  indis- 
position; five's  a  specific  for  nervousness,  insomnia 
and  that  tired  feeling.  Yes,  gentlemen,  I  don't  guar- 
antee it,  but  I  believe  the  entire  book  will  cure  any 
mild  case  of  insanity — how  many  copies  ?  Beg  your 
pardon — that's  not  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Well,  I  wrote  it  an  ought  to  know — ^buy  a  copy,  read 
it,  if  you  don't  feel  better,  preach  better,  love  your 
wife  better,  come  back  and  get  your — wife  a  copy." 

"Oh,  Hill  ring  off — of  course  we'll  buy  a  copy. 
Anything,  if  you'll  stop." 

"Physician  heal  thyself " 

"It  must  be  homeopathic " 


"!N"o,  patent,"  broke  in  the  Doctor,  "and  I  own  the 
formula.  Introductory  price  one  dollar — ^mere  mat- 
ter of  advertising  the  book.  She's  goes  up  to  one-fifty 
next  edition — ^now's  your  time  to  buy." 


82  3n  tfte  SfiaDoto  of  ©oo* 

A  bell  clanged  in  the  tower,  and  Hill  hurried  into 
the  church  with  the  men,  keeping  up  a  fusilade  of 
jokes  to  the  very  door  of  the  sanctuary. 

When  they  were  gone  Marvin  picked  up  the  book 
and  read  the  title,  "Experiences  and  Worse."  He 
bought  a  copy  and  slipping  into  a  back  pew  opened 
it  and  began  to  read.  It  was  simply  an  attempt  at 
humor — crude,  commonplace,  even  irreverent.  When 
he  had  gone  through  it,  he  sat  for  some  space  musing, 
his  eyes  on  the  sea  of  heads,  the  hum  of  the  proceed- 
ings in  his  ears,  but  he  did  not  see  or  hear;  he  was 
undergoing  again  that  hard  fought  battle  of  the 
mountain  top,  when  alone  with  God,  the  stars  in  his 
eyes,  he  had  given  the  fatal  stab  to  his  master  passion 
and  turned  his  back  on  its  dead  corpse,  another's 
hope  and  aspiration  animating  his  bosom.  The 
waste  of  heart-aches,  tears  and  bitter  hours!  How 
utterly  useless  in  the  light  of  recent  revelations. 

"Fool,  fool,"  burst  from  his  lips.  His  neighbor 
turned  in  surprise  and  he  shrank  back  in  confusion. 
The  noted  Hill — eloquent  preacher,  evangelist,  what- 
not, the  writer  of  a  humorous  book,  a  book  of  bad 
humor,  and  glorying  in  it.  And  Marvin  Garner,  silly 
that  he  was,  had  refrained  from  giving  expression  to 
the  holiest  sentiments,  emotions,  images  that  had 
stirred  his  soul  as  a  wicked  act.  Cheap  humor — ^noble 
painting.  He  could  have  laughed  for  joy.  A  light- 
ness of  spirit,  a  freedom,  as  if  a  burden  had  been 


In  tbt  ^ftaDoto  of  ©oD*  83 

rolled  from  his  shoulders,  stole  over  him.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  revitalizing  process  going  on  within. 
He  would  no  longer  feel  shame-faced  in  the  presence 
of  the  brethren;  no  longer  walk  among  them  con- 
demning himself  as  guilty  and  unworthy.  It  was 
plain  to  him  now  that  his  mother  was  mistaken,  her 
ideas  old  fashioned,  and  she  had  given  the  color  of 
her  conscience  to  his. 

His  old  ambition  sprang  again  into  dominating 
life,  and  was  welcomed.  He  would  again  take  up 
his  art,  and  while  he  proved  his  powers  he  would  not 
only  be  earning  a  support  but  would  gratify  his 
parents  and  be  engaged  in  a  noble  work.  How  he  re- 
gretted the  lost  opportunities  of  the  past  year.  He 
smiled  as  he  though  of  himself  dropping  on  his  knees 
crying  out  to  God  to  take  the  love  of  art  from  his 
soul  when  he  felt  the  impulse  to  paint  stir  within  him. 
It  was  God  who  had  given  him  the  instinct,  had  meant 
that  he  should  use  it.  He  recalled  the  parable  of  the 
talents.  Perhaps  he  was  the  man  witli  the  two.  If  so, 
it  would  be  wrong  not  to  put  them  out  to  usury.  He 
felt  now  that  he  would  find  a  satisfaction  in  his 
religious  work  that  had  heretofore  been  withheld.  So 
he  reasoned. 

A  few  days  before  the  close  of  the  conference,  the 
Bishop  made  an  address  on  Home  Missions.  He  had 
lately  made  a  visitation  in  what  was  known  as  the 
Panhandle,  a  portion  of  the  state  bordering  on  the 


84  3n  tfje  S»{)aODto  of  ©oti* 

Great  Staked  Plain,  that  at  that  time  was  rapidly 
filling  with  homeseekers,  who  were  attracted  to  it 
by  the  cheapness  of  railroad  and  state  lands  that  were 
being  thrown  on  the  market.  Bishop  Kneys  pictured 
the  conditions  under  which  they  lived  with  rare  real- 
ism— ^the  hardships  of  life  in  a  new  country,  the  crude 
homes  in  huts  and  dugouts,  the  drouths,  the  struggle 
for  existence  against  a  seemingly  pitiless  environ- 
ment, the  religious  privations,  and  the  eagerness  of 
the  people  for  the  association  and  ministration  of  the 
missionary.  In  closing  he  spoke  of  the  need  of  con- 
secrated, self-sacrificing  men  for  the  work;  but  be- 
cause of  the  meager  salaries  and  the  many  hardships, 
he  had  hesitated  to  send  men  without  their  consent, 
and  had  sought  this  opportunity  to  ask  for  volunteers. 
It  would  be  hard,  but  it  would  be  heroic  work,  and 
would  have  its  reward.  He  expressed  the  belief  that 
there  were  still  young  men  with  the  spirit  of  St.  Paul 
who  would  heed  the  Macedonion  cry. 

He  made  a  strong  appeal,  the  audience  was  visibly 
moved ;  it  seemed  that  under  the  spell  of  his  eloquence 
he  would  be  embarrassed  by  the  number  who  would 
court  martyrdom  to  prove  their  devotion  and  faith. 
When  he  sat  down  there  was  an  instant  of  expectant 
silence.  The  speaker's  hypnosis  still  rested  on  the 
multitude.  There  pulsed  a  current  of  telepathic 
waves  from  soul  to  soul.  They  waited  anxiously  for 
the  appearance  of  the  volunteer.    The  one  who  should 


In  tbt  ^fjaDoto  of  &oU.  85 

first  offer  himself  for  the  work  would  be  acclaimed  a 
hero  and  move  mightily  upon  the  wrought-up  senti- 
ments of  the  people.  It  was  a  moment  the  politician 
would  have  coveted — that  stage  when  the  individual 
no  longer  thinks ;  reason  for  a  time  loses  itself  unac- 
countably, and  a  composite  feeling  dominates  the 
audience  as  if  it  possessed  but  a  single  personality. 
Marvin  had  enough  of  the  orator  to  recognize  this. 
He  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  speak  the  word,  drop 
on  the  smouldering  tinder  the  spark,  to  see  the  multi- 
tude break  to  pieces  at  the  glance  of  his  eye,  the  wave 
of  his  hand,  the  sound  of  his  voice.  The  Bishop  had 
led  up  to  a  masterly  climax,  but  another  must  give 
it  completion. 

His  mother  sat  at  his  side.  He  turned  quickly  and 
asked  her  if  she  would  like  him  to  go.  There  was  a 
moment's  hesitation,  then  she  bravely  said :  "If  you 
feel  that  you  ought,  son,  I'll  be  glad."  The  next 
moment  he  was  on  his  feet,  his  straight,  handsome 
form  towering  above  the  mass  of  heads.  He  walked 
lightly,  with  confident  tread  half  way  up  the  aisle. 
A  thousand  eyes  were  upon  him ;  their  hopes  were  to 
be  realized ;  the  hero  had  appeared ;  the  Bishop's  im- 
passioned appeal  was  to  bear  speedy  fruit.  With  an 
effort  they  held  in  check  their  pent  up  emotions  as 
they  waited  for  the  youth  to  speak.  With  an  in- 
clination of  his  head  toward  the  Bishop,  who  looked 
out  over  the  tense  faces  beamingly,  he  addressed  him ; 


86  3n  tfie  S)|iatioto  of  ©oD* 

swept  the  throng  at  a  glance,  then  in  a  full,  vibrant 
voice  that  fell  on  the  ear  like  compelling  music,  he 
offered  himself  for  the  field. 

"I  am  young,  inexperienced,  have  little  to  offer, 
but.  Bishop,  if  you  can  do  no  better,  here  am  I,  send 
me,"  he  ended.  Then  he  hesitated  a  moment,  his  head 
slightly  bent  forward,  his  face  in  thoughtful  humility 
on  the  floor,  and,  turning,  passed  quickly  to  his 
mother's  side.  The  multitude  gasped,  staring 
blankly,  then  broke  into  unreasoning  tears  as  if 
stricken  suddenly  witli  dire  calamity ;  the  air  quivered 
with  a  hissing  intake  of  breath.  The  more  emotional 
sprang  to  their  feet  in  wild  shouts  of  ecstacy,  thank- 
ing God  for  such  youths,  praying  benedictions  upon 
him.  The  Bishop  rose,  shouting,  ^^Glory  to  God,"  and 
began  singing  one  of  those  hymns  with  sentimental 
words  and  sensuous  music  that  wrench  the  emotions 
like  a  powerful  stimulant.  Men  and  women  sur- 
rendered themselves  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 
They  enjoyed  all  the  thrill,  the  fine  spiritual  exalta- 
tion of  the  hero  without  any  of  the  hardships  he  is 
called  to  undergo.  They  fell  upon  Marvin  and  his 
mother,  shaking  their  hands,  hugging  them  impar- 
tially, mobbing  them  in  a  religious  frenzy. 

From  that  moment  Marvin  was  a  marked  man.  "No 
incident  of  the  session  produced  so  profound  an  im- 
pression. He  became  a  hero  in  spite  of  himself.  Men 
who  had  grown  old  in  a  life  of  sublime  self-sacrifice 


3tt  tfte  @)&aDota3  of  &oh,  87 

felt  honored  to  shake  his  hand ;  strangers  stopped  him 
on  the  street  to  make  his  acquaintance;  wonderful 
things  were  predicted  of  him.  Men  lost  sight  of  the 
heroic  spirit  he  had  exhibited  in  admiration  of  him 
as  an  orator.  But  the  recipient  of  all  this  interest 
was  deeply  humiliated  after  the  first  flush  of  triumph. 
For  when  he  looked  into  his  heart  he  knew  that  selfish 
motives  alone  had  moved  him — to  try  his  powers,  to 
please  his  mother,  to  go  to  a  field  where  he  could 
study  Xature  in  the  wild.  That  night  he  prayed  fer- 
vently in  deep  contrition  of  spirit  for  forgiveness  for 
what  he  had  done.  A  hundred  other  preachers  closed 
their  eyes  in  unavailing  regret  that  they  had  not  been 
the  fortunate  one  to  make  the  most  of  the  psycholo- 
gical moment.  If  the  opportunity  was  presented 
again  they  would  be  equal  to  it.  Such  is  the  differ- 
ences in  the  destinies  of  men.  The  few  blaze  the 
way ;  the  mediocre  masses  see  how  easily  it  was  done, 
could  have  done  it  themselves  just  as  easily  could  they 
have  seen,  could  they  have  known — ^perhaps  they; 
could. 


88  M  ti)e  @i)aDotai  of  <a^oQ. 


PART  THREE. 
CHAPTER   I. 

The  shadows  thickened  on  the  limitless  stretches  of 
the  brown  prarie.  Below  the  sky-line  objects  were  no 
longer  distinguishable,  but  presented  to  the  eye  a 
formless  monotonous  drab,  against  which  feeble  yel- 
low lights  marked  the  straggling  village  of  Benvanue. 
Along  the  crest  of  an  adjacent  divide  a  lone  horseman 
moved  slowly,  dropped  from  sight,  and  presently  re- 
appeared within  a  square  radiance  that  streamed  from 
an  open  doorway.  In  answer  to  his  haloo,  a  slim 
girlish  figure  rose  indistinctly  on  a  porch,  and  called 
out :  "Is  that  you,  Uncle  Jim  ?" 

"I'm  Mr.  Garner.  I'm  looking  for  Mr.  Grogan's," 
Marvin  replied,  evasively. 

"Oh,  come  in,  come  in,  he's  eating  his  supper,"  the 
voice  said  with  impatient  friendliness. 

The  traveller  slipped  from  his  horse  and  stepped 
toward  the  gate.  It  was  suddenly  thrown  open  and 
the  girl  rushed  into  his  arms. 

"Oh,  you  think  you'll  fool  me  again,  but  you  can't. 


3n  tfte  »6aDoto  of  ©oD*  89 

I've  been  looking  for  you."  She  planted  a  kiss  on  his 
cheek  and  drew  her  arm  through  his.  "I'm  awfully 
glad  to  see  you,  Jim.    What  made  you  so  late  ?" 

The  other  sought  to  disengage  himself,  conscious 
that  his  face  was  flaming  at  this  cordial  but  mistaken 
welcome. 

"I'm  not  Jim — I'm  the  new  preacher — ^Marvin 
Garner,"  he  stammered. 

"Jim  quit  your  fooling.  I  am  on  to  you  this  time. 
It  was  Capt.  Lany  before,  now  it's  Parson  Garner. 
"No,  you  don't  catch  me  twice  with  the  same  trick." 
She  led  him  toward  the  house,  plying  him  with  ques- 
tions. Marvin  remained  silent,  imagining  her  dis- 
comfiture when  they  should  come  into  the  light. 

A  man  stood  waiting  them  in  the  doorway. 

"Hello,  Jim,  how's  things  over  at  Eetta  ?"  he  asked, 
stepping  aside  for  them  to  enter. 

"Oh,  this  ain't  Jim — this  is  Parson  Garner,  who- 
ever he  is,"  said  Marvin's  companion,  sarcastically. 
"Thinks  he's  awful  sly  slipping  up  on  us  this  way." 
They  entered  the  hall,  and  she  turned  to  confront  the 
culprit  she  had  caught  red-handed. 

Then  she  screamed  and  fled  precipitately. 

Marvin  was  left  facing  her  father. 

"This  is  Mr.  Grogan,  I  believe  ?"  he  began,  offering 
his  hand.  "It  seems  I've  been  taken  for  Uncle  Jim. 
I'm  Marvin  Garner,  the  new  preacher  sent  to  the 
Mission." 


90  3n  tfte  S)f)aDoto  of  (25oO» 

Mr.  Grogan  took  the  proffered  hand  gingerly,  his 
face  crinkling  with  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Brother  Garner;  have  a  chair. 
You'll  have  to  excuse  Ida;  she's  rather  upset  at  her 
mistake.  We  hadn't  heard  if  we  were  to  get  a 
preacher  this  year  or  not,  and  were  not  expecting  you. 
We  have  just  finished  supper.  Keep  your  seat,  and 
I'll  speak  to  my  wife." 

Marvin  left  alone,  imconsciously  put  his  finger  tips 
to  the  spot  where  Miss  Grogan  had  meant  to  kiss 
Uncle  Jim.  Presently  Mrs.  Grogan  entered  and  made 
further  explanation  of  his  unusual  reception.  "Jim's 
such  a  tease,"  she  said  in  a  soft,  pleasant  voice. 
"Thinks  it  a  great  joke  to  ride  up  in  the  night  and 
ask  for  lodging,  pretending  he's  a  stranger.  Ida 
learned  from  the  stage-driver  that  he  was  coming  out 
to-day  and  thought  she  would  get  even  with  him. 
She's  very  sorry  for  her  blunder " 

"It  was  quite  natural,"  returned  Marvin. 

Later  w^hen  he  had  fiinished  his  supper,  Ida  stepped 
into  the  doorway  haltingly,  and  waited  for  her  mother 
to  introduce  her.  Then  she  came  forward  with  a  de- 
termined air  and  offered  her  hand. 

"You'll  pardon  my  rudeness.  Brother  Garner.  I 
never  dreamed  that  it  could  be  anybody  but  Uncle 
Jim.    Ma  has  told  you  hoAV  it  came  to  happen  ?" 

Then  the  incident  was  dropped.  Soon  afterward 
Mrs.  Grogan  excused  herself.     It  suddenly  struck 


In  t6e  §)|)atioto  of  ©oD*  oi 

Marvin  as  odd  that  he  should  be  in  this  home,  sur- 
passing in  elegance  and  refinement  any  he  had  known 
during  his  encumbency  at  Whiterock,  being  enter- 
tained by  a  charming  young  lady,  when  he  expected 
to  be  spending  the  night  in  a  settler's  hut  or  dugout. 
But  when  he  confided  his  expectations  to  Miss  Ida, 
he  learned  that  they  would  have  been  realized  had  he 
sought  hospitality  at  the  home  of  any  other  member 
of  his  flock.  Mr.  Grogan  was  one  of  the  few  men  of 
means  living  on  the  prairie,  most  of  the  large  land 
owners  and  ranchers  being  non-resident. 

Miss  Ida  had  lately  returned  from  a  term  at  the 
Eetta  Female  College,  and  still  prided  herself  upon 
her  accomplishments.  She  played  and  sang  for  her 
guest,  and  finally  offered  a  portfolio  of  sketches  and 
paintings  for  his  approval. 

"I'm  sure  these  pictures  are  quite  well  done,"  Mar- 
vin assured  her,  examining  them  critically. 

"To  be  honest  with  you,"  she  explained;  "I  don't 
deserve  credit  for  them.  The  fact  is,  my  teacher 
touched  them  up  considerably.  I'm  enlarging  a 
Dutch  landscape  from  an  advertising  card.  I'll  show 
it  to  you  some  time." 

"I'd  think  you'd  find  the  prairie  about  here  a 
splendid  subject?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  think  of  doing  anything  like  that. 
I  just  copy,  badly  at  that.  I  haven't  any  talent  for 
original  work,  but  I  dearly  love  art," 


92  3n  tfie  ^ftaDoto  of  (2)oD* 

^^iss  Ida,  I'm  so  glad  you  do,  and  it  tempts  me 
to  let  you  into  a  little  secret  of  mine,"  Marvin  said 
impulsively,  led  into  a  confidence  by  his  entertainer's 
evident  appreciation  of  art.    "I  paint  a  little  myself." 

"Oh,  you  do — how  nice.    Then  you'll  help  me  ?" 

He  could  not  draw  back  now,  though  he  had  a  feel- 
ing of  having  blundered. 

"I'm  sure  I'll  be  very  glad  to — if  I  can,"  he  said. 

A  shadow  came  into  Miss  Ida's  face. 

"I — I  don't  think,  though,  father  would  approve  if 
he  knew.  He  thinks  it  a  waste  of  time — my  trying 
to  paint.  He  says  it's  silly  to  be  daubing  fields  and 
animals  when  you  can  look  out  the  window  any  hour 
and  see  the  real  thing.    But  you  can  trust  me." 

The  next  day  Marvin  moved  into  the  parsonage.  It 
was  a  rude  little  boxed  house  of  rough  pine.  There 
were  two  rooms  above  and  two  below,  all  of  the  same 
size,  connected  by  a  ladder-like  stairway.  It  was 
little  more  than  a  mile  from  Mr.  Grogan's,  just  over 
a  swell  of  the  prairie,  and  from  his  door  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  could  be  seen  on  the  sky  like  the  dirty  tents 
of  travellers.  The  nearest  settlement  south  of  him 
was  some  five  miles  distant,  and  four  miles  to  the 
north  wound  the  sluggish  Red  River,  the  timber  along 
its  course  hovering  on  the  plain  like  a  fringe  of  cloud. 
The  view  was  colossal,  and  as  Marvin  stood  before  the 
door  and  swept  the  horizon,  it  was  as  if  he  had  been 
set  down  upon  an  uninhabited  world,  he  a  lone  dweller 


In  tht  ^fiaDoto  of  ©oD*  93 

on  a  brown  solitude.  It  was  the  environment  of  which 
he  had  dreamed ;  he  felt  as  if  God  had  answered  the 
nnworded  prayer  of  his  heart.  As  he  stood  there  at 
the  close  of  the  day,  tired  with  the  moving  in,  and 
watched  the  sun  go  down  through  fields  of  yellow  radi- 
ance, he  lifted  his  eyes  toward  the  glory  that  opened 
to  his  view — prayed  for  power  to  put  what  he  saw, 
what  he  felt,  on  canvas.  God  moved  a  tangible,  per- 
sonal presence  in  the  vast  glooming  spaces,  thrilled 
him. 

"God,  God,"  he  cried  from  the  very  depths  of  his 
soul. 


04  3n  tU  S)j)aDoto  of  (SoD* 


CHAPTER   11. 

Four  miles  from  Benvanue  on  the  river,  high  on 
the  second  bank,  above  the  overflow  mark,  there  were 
clustered  a  dozen  or  so  huts,  known  as  Dugout  Town. 
These  were  inhabited  by  squatters,  peripatetic  front- 
iersmen, who  spent  their  lives  drifting  just  in  advance 
of  the  oncoming  wave  of  civilization.  Here  Marvin 
often  came  and  spent  a  day  visiting  among  the  people. 
Late  one  afternoon  returning  from  this  village,  he 
descried  Miss  Ida  moving  afoot  across  the  prairie 
toward  Benvanue.  She  walked  slowly,  swinging  an 
empty  basket  on  her  arm.  At  his  approach  she  turned, 
a  look  of  startled  surprise  on  her  face. 

"Why,  Brother  Garner,  how  you  frightened  me." 

He  dismounted  and  walked  beside  her. 

Her  wide-brimmed  hat  had  fallen  coquetishly  awry, 
and  the  wind  flung  her  hair  a  black  aureole  about  her 
face  and  neck.  There  was  a  fine  bronze  beneath  the 
red  of  her  cheeks,  the  vitality  of  health  sparkled  in 
her  eyes,  and,  as  Marvin  watched  her  move  knee  deep 
in  the  rank  grass,  he  thought  of  her  as  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  spirit  of  the  prairie.  He  suddenly  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  having  her  pose  for  him.     He 


In  tfie  §)i)aDoto  of  (fiJoa*  95 

would  paint  a  picture  and  call  it  "The  Spirit  of  the 
Prairie." 

The  sun  was  sinking  low  behind  the  divide.  He 
stopped  and  studied  her  lithe  form  as  it  swung  firmly 
against  the  yellow  glow.  The  soft  light  gilded  her 
like  a  statute  done  in  gold. 

"Miss  Ida  I  want  to  paint  you  like  that,"  he  called. 
Then  he  told  her  of  the  idea  that  had  come  to  him. 
She  was  flattered  and  entered  heartily  into  his  plans. 

Some  days  later  at  a  prearranged  hour,  she  has- 
tened across  the  stretch  of  pasture  between  her  home 
and  the  parsonage.  Coming  to  a  spot  that  had  been 
marked  by  the  artist,  she  assumed  a  pose,  in  the  de- 
tails of  which  she  had  been  instructed.  Here  she 
stood  motionless,  gazing  into  the  luminous  west.  She 
at  intervals  moved  about,  picking  the  belated  flowers 
that  she  found  there,  her  eyes  wandering  furtively  to 
the  window  where  she  knew  the  artist  worked.  Had 
a  passerby  seen  her  at  these  times  he  might  have  con- 
jectured that  some  other  reason  than  the  faded  blos- 
soms and  sunset  led  her  to  visit  the  spot;  and  this 
is  exactly  what  did  take  place  some  weeks  later.  Mr. 
Grogan,  on  his  way  to  a  distant  part  of  the  ranch, 
upon  coming  to  the  top  of  the  divide,  espied  the 
strange  figure  beyond  staring  skyward.  He  stopped 
and  regarded  the  apparition  curiously.  In  the  cos- 
tume of  the  Spirit  of  the  Prairie  he  did  not  recognize 
his  daughter.     While  he  hesitated,  he  saw  her  turn 


96  Sn  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  (SoO* 

toward  the  window,  then  stoop  and  busy  herself  with 
something  in  the  grass.  He  at  once  suspected  a  com- 
munication of  some  kind  between  the  person  within 
doors  and  the  one  acting  so  oddly  without.  He 
slipped  into  the  grass,  and  from  this  point  of  vantage 
continued  his  observations.  He  was  perplexed  when 
the  object  of  them  presently  resumed  the  statue-like 
attitude  and  fixity  of  gaze.  But  when,  at  the  next 
interval  of  rest,  the  actor  of  the  mystifying  drama 
turned  toward  him,  he  perceived  that  it  was  Ida.  For 
a  moment  he  was  puzzled.  Then  a  black  suspicion 
flashed  through  his  mind.  He  rose  from  his  conceal- 
ment and  strode  toward  her.  "Ida,  what  are  you 
doing  here  ? — how  strange  you  look." 

"Oh,"  cried  Ida,  startled,  fear  in  her  eyes.  She 
stood  an  instant  regarding  her  father  dubiously,  her 
face  crimson.  "Why,  pa,  how  you  frightened  me," 
she  said.  "IVe  been  picking  flowers  that  I  knew  ^ew 
hereabout.  See,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  holding  up 
a  few  stalks  of  faded  blossoms. 

Marvin  witnessed  the  little  tragedy  and  was  filled 
with  a  sudden  apprehension.  He  threw  down  his 
brush  and  hastened  below.  This  secrecy  was  unwise. 
If  he  must  paint,  he  should  do  it  openly.  If  wrong 
be  should  give  it  up;  if  right  it  was  cowardly  to 
humor  the  ignorance  and  prejudice  of  his  people.  The 
words  of  St.  Paul  came  to  him,  "If  meat  make  my 
brother  to  offend  I  will  eat  no  more  meat."  .Wasn't  St. 


In  tht  ^fiaoobi  of  (S^oo.  or 

Paul  a  time-server  ?  Why  did  he  not  teach  the  people 
that  it  was  not  wrong  to  eat  meat  instead  of  compro- 
mising with  their  superstition  ? 

But  he  was  no  longer  in  a  mood  to  paint.  He  was 
almost  tempted  to  make  a  vow  never  to  touch  canvas 
again.  He  could  not  go  on  in  this  way.  Some  evil 
would  surely  grow  out  of  it.  Other  men  might  serve 
two  masters,  but  he  was  not  large  enough,  he  must 
swear  allegiance  to  one  or  the  other.  Saddling  his 
horse,  he  started  in  a  canter  across  the  plain,  and  rode 
on  and  on,  oblivious  of  time,  distance,  direction. 
When  the  mood  passed,  he  realized  that  he  had  wan- 
dered miles  from  the  village.  The  sun  had  gone 
down  and  night  had  fallen  gloomily  about  him.  From 
the  elevation  he  could  follow  the  leaden  gleam  of  the 
river  winding  into  impenetrable  shadows.  Presently 
this  melted  into  black  night.  The  face  of  the  plain 
vanished.  Overhead,  a  low  curtain  of  cloud  shut  out 
the  heavens.  The  wind  swept  through  the  grass  in 
mournful  dirge.  A  great  sense  of  lonliness  settled 
upon  him,  an  undefinable  unrest  moved  within  him 
that  he  could  not  calm,  could  not  fathom.  He  stared 
into  the  silent,  obscure  spaces  bewildered,  trackless, 
chartless,  isolated,  engulfed. 

He  still  stood  perplexed,  knowing  not  which  way 
to  turn,  when  there  broke  upon  the  stillness  the  clatter 
of  hoofs.  He  called  lustily.  The  horseman  came  to 
a  halting  stop.     "Hello,  stranger,"  came  from  the 


98  3n  tfte  SftaDolti  of  ©oD* 

dark.  Guided  by  the  voice,  Marvin  soon  joined  the 
traveller.  He  was  going  to  Benvanue  for  a  doctor, 
and  the  horses  now  walked  briskly  in  that  direction. 

"Been  hearin'  of  you,"  began  the  stranger  after  he 
had  learned  Marvin's  name;  "an'  they  tell  me  you 
ain't  no  common  cayuse  of  a  word  slinger,  not  mean- 
in'  no  offense ;  an'  I've  been  promisin'  myself  I'd  go 
over  some  time  an'  hear  the  way  you  done  it." 

Marvin  murmured  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  him 
at  his  services.  An  interval  of  silence  followed,  then 
the  stranger,  with  the  feeling  common  to  unsophisti- 
cated minds  that  religion  is  the  only  subject  a 
preacher  is  interested  in,  began  hesitatingly,  but 
reverently : 

"I  ain't  religus.  Parson,  but  it  ain't  because  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be.  An'  I  reckin  a  feller  never  tried 
harder  to  git  it  than  yer's  truly.  Yes,  I  'tended  three 
camp-meetin's,  han'  runnin',  an'  I  went  to  the  mourn- 
er's bench  every  chanct  I  got,  but  it  weren't  no  good. 
Somehow  I  couldn't  ketch  on  to  the  trick  of  the  thing, 
though  I  ain't  blamin'  nobody  but  myself.  Every- 
body seemed  to  do  their  best.  Parson  Pertil  would 
come  an'  kneel  down  by  me  an'  put  his  arms  lovin' 
roun'  my  neck,  an'  say,  'Dear  Frien',  can't  you  say, 
"Here,  Lord,  I  give  myself  away,  'tis  all  as  I  can 
do." '  An'  then  I'd  say  it  an'  keep  say  in'  it,  an'  run- 
nin' over  it  in  my  min'  till  I  could  see  the  Lord  his- 
self  stan'nin'  there  afore  me,  his  ban's  an'  tender 


In  tbt  ^fiaDoto  of  (SoD*  99 

brow  a-droppin'  blood,  an'  the  sorrowful  look  on  his 
face,  an'  I  see  myself  kneelin'  in  the  dust  at  his  feet, 
wringin'  my  ban's  an'  cryin',  'Tis  all  as  I  can  do.' 
But  somehow  I  couldn't  git  no  religin. 

"Then  ol'  Sister  Durin,  from  town,  who  'tends  all 
the  camp-meetin's  an'  lechineers  fer  her  son  that's 
jedge,  she'd  come  'long  shakin'  ban's  right  an'  left, 
an'  sayin',  'I  love  you,  an'  my  son  loves  you,  an'  I 
want  to  see  you  shoutin'  happy.  Oh,  frien'  don't 
never  turn  back.'  But  I  noticed  when  she  learned  a 
feller  didn't  live  in  the  county  she  weren't  so  lovin' 
to  him  no  more,  an'  then  kind  of  a  hard  lump  'ud 
come  up  in  my  throat  an'  I'd  feel  like  I'd  never  git 
religin  in  the  world. 

"Then  they'd  come  an'  crowd  on  you  with  their 
feet  an'  arms  an'  cry  into  yer  ears  till  you  couldn't 
think,  an'  I  thought  shorely  I'd  smother  to  death.  My 
eyes  'ud  git  that  dry  I  couldn't  force  a  tear,  an'  I'd 
feel  I  'z  shore  lost. 

"Wern't  fer  George  Bridgeman,  I  guess  I'd  'a' 
give  up.  Maybe  you  know  him.  He'z  one  of  yer 
members,  an'  has  a  ranch  over  on  Whichita.  Well, 
he  never  was  much  to  shout,  but  he'z  one  of  the  best 
fellers  God  ever  made.  When  I  landed  yere  broke, 
an'  no  credit  an'  no  frien's,  he  stood  fer  me  over  at 
Grogan's,  an'  I  ain't  never  forgot  Well,  he  come  an' 
took  my  ban'  sof  like,  an'  says  something  sensible, 
an'  'fore  I  knowed  it  the  tears  come  floodin'  my  eyes 


100        M  tbt  ^f)aDob)  of  ao&. 

an'  I  felt  like  risin'  up  an'  fetcliin'  him  a  hug,  remem- 
berin'  what  he  had  done  fer  me.  An'  I'd  pray  the 
Lord  to  let  me  profess  while  George  was  roun',  but 
he  never  did,  an'  I'm  still  onreligus." 

Marvin  made  a  non-committal  remark,  and,  thus 
encouraged,  he  continued : 

"There  was  one  feller  that  made  sech  a  queer  mis- 
take, I  fergot  where  I  was  an'  broke  out  into  sech  out- 
landish laughin'  they  thought  I'd  come  through.  It 
was  one  night — the  lights  weren't  nothin'  to  speak  of 
— an'  he  took  me  fer  a  frien'  of  his.  It  was  a  pity 
how  that  feller  banged  me  in  the  back.  Says  he,  *01' 
pard,  can't  you  shell  down  the  corn.  Tell  the  Lord 
how  mean  you've  been,  an'  you  want  him  to  save  you. 
He'll  do  it  You  ain't  no  worser'n  me,  an'  you  know 
I  got  drunk  an'  cust  an'  shot  up  things.  An'  you  re- 
member ol'  nigger  Dick  as  was  in  our  way  when  we 
wanted  to  bran'  them  yearlin's,  you  know  which  ones. 
Well,  I'm  done  forgive  fer  it  all.  I  feel  as  innercent 
as  a  new  born  babe,  an'  if  Dick  was  back  agin  I  could 
forgive  an'  love  'im.  Jest  throw  yerself  on  the  prom- 
ises. Say,  pard,  talk  to  me — how  you  feelin'  ?'  I 
remained  silent  as  death.  Then  he  says,  ^Bill,  ol'  boy, 
can't  you  round  her  up  ?  Jest  knuckle  down  an'  give 
way  to  yer  feelin's.'  I  didn't  dare  open  my  mouth, 
an'  seems  like  he  begin  to  smell  a  mouse.  Then  he  got 
quiet  an'  I  could  feel  him  peerin'  closer,  an'  he 
whispered  sorter  'furd  like,  an'  breathin'  hard,  ^Lord 


3n  tfie  S)|)aDoto  of  <SoD*         loi 

have  mercy.'  When  I  peeked  under  my  elbow,  he'd 
done  gone.  Couple  of  fellers  was  missin'  from  the 
range  after  that  an'  I  knowed  who  shot  nigger  Dick. 

"l^To,  I  guess  there  ain't  no  religin  fer  me,"  he 
rattled  on.  "I've  done  my  best.  They'd  say,  'Let 
every  breath  be  a  prayer,  an'  I  prayed  an'  prayed  till 
I  thought  shorely  the  Lord'ud  give  me  religin  to  git 
shet  of  me.  Then  I'd  clear  run  out  an'  I'd  jest  lay 
there  an'  lisen  to  the  brothers  an'  sisters  till  I  knowed 
their  prayers  by  heart,  an'  when  Brother  Brooks  said 
it  would  do  me  good  if  I'd  pray  aloud,  I  turned  loose 
on  his.  Well,  there  was  some  surprised  folks,  an'  they 
didn't  call  on  me  to  pray  no  more.  But  I  done  my 
best,  an'  I  ain't  blamin'  nobody,"  he  said  with  cheer- 
full  hopelessness. 

A  turn  in  the  road  brought  into  view  a  twinkling 
light  far  on  the  horizon. 

"You  see  that  light  yonder?"  he  asked.  "Well, 
that's  Col.  Whaley's.  Though  whether  he's  a  colonel 
er  not,  er  his  name's  Whaley  er  not,  is  more'n  I  can 
say.  IsTow,  he's  one  of  yer  straight  out  an'  out  onre- 
ligus  fellers.  Cusses  religin  till  you'd  think  if  there's 
a  God  he'd  shore  be  struck  down  fer  blasphemy." 

Marvin  expressed  an  interest  in  the  blasphemous 
colonel,  and  his  companion  continued : 

"They  do  say  if  he  had  jestice  he'd  be  wearin' 
stripes.  But  a  feller  pays  fer  his  meanness  one  way 
er  another,  an'  I  guess  if  the  Lord  makes  that  kind 


102         M  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  ©oD^ 

of  a  man  he's  able  to  give  him  his  proper  punishment 
without  my  interferin'.  So  if  you  ast  me  if  it's 
true  what  everybody  thinks  'bout  Whaley,  I'd  say  it's 
none  of  my  bizness.  Fer  as  my  dealin's  with  him 
goes,  he's  been  white;  an'  that's  more'n  you  can  say 
fer  every  one  that  makes  a  great  bluff  of  vartue  an' 
religin.  But  'tween  us,  Parson,  that  man's  had 
'speriences.  If  you  ever  see  him,  jest  look  into  his 
eyes.  It  makes  you  sad  to  look  at  that  man  when  he 
thinks  nobody's  noticin'.  If  he's  done  wicked,  I  guess 
he's  payin'  fer  it.  You  ain't  hurd  ?  Well,  it  was  like 
this.  He  moved  onto  the  river  yere  afore  the  Indians 
quit  debredatin'  the  country,  opened  up  a  big  ranch 
an'  always  seemed  to  have  no  end  of  money,  though 
where  it  come  from  nobody  never  knowed.  He 
wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  nobody,  spent  his 
time  with  his  books — ^got  piles  of  'em,  like  a  lawyer. 
'Casionally  he  goes  off  somewhere  fer  months,  no- 
body knows  where,  an'  he  always  comes  back  lookin' 
like  he's  jest  gittin'  up  from  a  spell  of  sickness. 

"Well,  long  time  ago,  so  they  say,  one  of  his  cow- 
boys went  back  East  somewhere  an'  married  a  young 
wife.  She  was  one  of  them  fine  lookin'  creatures  with 
bewitchin'  ways,  an'  wimin  bein'  a  pretty  scarce 
article  on  the  prairie,  she  soon  had  everybody's  head 
turned.  Wasn't  long  afore  they  noticed  things  weren't 
runnin'  exactly  civilized  up  at  the  ranch.  Whaley  'ud 
send  off  Purdy,  that  was  her  husband's  name,  an'  then 


%n  tbt  ®6a0oto  of  ©oD*         103 

he'd  have  her  up  to  his  house.  !N'acherly  folks  went  to 
talkin'  an'  soon  the  carryin'  on  reached  Purdy.  He 
got  furious  mad  an'  quarrelled  with  Whaley.  Soon 
after,  as  the  say  in'  goes,  he  waked  up  one  momin'  an' 
foun'  hisself  dead.  Someone  shot  him  while  he's 
'sleep.  Suspicion  pointed  to  his  wife,  an'  she  was 
'rested  an'  tried,  but  Whaley  stood  by  her,  an'  she 
come  clear.    That's  what  circulates  on  the  prairie." 

They  had  by  this  time  entered  the  sleeping  village. 

"I  hope  I  ain't  bored  you?"  said  Marvin's  loqua- 
cious guide,  turning  toward  him.  "Wife  says  if  I 
could  use  my  ban's  like  I  do  my  tongue,  I'd  shore  git 
rich.  My  name  is  Bud  Black,  an'  if  you  happen  over 
on  the  river,  come  an'  see  me — my  wife's  religus," 
and  with  a  curt  good-night,  he  clattered  down  the 
street. 


10^         In  tbt  @i)aDotai  of  aoD. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Ida  kept  no  more  the  artistic  tryst.  But  Marvin 
mastered  the  passing  compunction  and  went  on  with 
his  painting.  "The  Spirit  of  the  Prairie"  had  reached 
that  stage  where  he  could  carry  it  on  to  its  completion 
unaided.  He  worked  unflaggi.ngly,  and  so  completely 
were  the  spare  hours  of  the  day  taken  up  with  his 
brush  that  he  often  sat  far  into  the  night  pouring 
over  the  books  that  he  yet  must  be  examined  on  for 
orders.  Occasionally  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  con- 
viction that  it  was  a  useless  waste  of  time,  but  he 
conscientiously  held  himself  to  it 

One  night  while  thus  engaged,  his  feeble  light 
streaming  out  into  the  dark,  the  only  landmark  on  the 
shrouded  prairie,  the  faint  thud  of  distant  hoof  beats 
broke  on  his  ear.  He  sat  up,  and,  his  hand  as  a 
marker  on  the  open  page,  he  looked  out  the  window 
and  listened.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  horseman, 
and  he  found  himself  tracing  the  course  of  the  clatter- 
ing feet,  till  at  length  they  stopped  at  his  gate. 

*^Hello,"  cried  someone  from  the  dark. 

Marvin  threw  open  the  door. 

"What  is  it  The  called. 


In  t&e  ©Jjaaoto  of  ©oD*        105 

"Colonel  Whaley  is  dying  and  wants  you  to  come. 
I  brought  a  horse — he  says  you  must  hurry." 

Marvin  threw  on  his  top  coat  and  hat  and  was  soon 
plunging  through  the  night  after  his  reckless  guide. 
As  he  sped  along,  he  wondered  why  the  Colonel  had 
sent  for  him,  what  word  of  comfort  he  could  offer  to 
one  who  had  led  the  life  imputed  to  the  now  dying 
man.  He  was  awed  at  the  thought  of  a  soul  facing 
eternity  calling  to  him  for  help.  He  felt  impotent, 
what  ministration  of  his  could  change  that  life  ?  what 
promise  did  revelation  hold  out  to  the  unbeliever? 
He  was  sorely  perplexed.  But  the  Colonel  made  the 
dreaded  duty  easier  for  him  than  he  had  hoped. 

When  he  entered  the  room  where  he  lay,  he  found 
the  sick  man  in  a  stupor,  his  face  haggard  and  drawn, 
breathing  heavily.  Purdy's  widow  sat  at  his  feet,  her 
face  buried  in  the  quilts. 

The  noise  of  the  entry  aroused  him.  He  opened  his 
bloodshot  eyes  and  stared  into  the  visitor's  face. 

"You  came?''  he  said  calmly.  "I  thought  you 
would.  Not  that  you  care  a  damn  for  me,  but  because 
it  is  a  part  of  your  humbugging  business." 

He  dismissed  the  woman  and,  after  silently  regard- 
ing the  preacher  for  a  space,  suddenly  asked: 

"!N'ow,  what  do  you  think  you  can  do  for  me  V 

He  waited  for  Marvin's  reply. 

"As  you  sent  for  me,  I  supposed  you  thought  I 


106         M  tfte  S)&aDoto  of  (SoB* 

might  help  you  in  some  way.    V\\  be  glad  to  do  any- 
thing in  my  power." 

^'Do  you  believe  in  God  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  he  answers  prayer  ?" 

"If  offered  in  faith — according  to  His  will " 

"Oh,  damn  it,  the  old  song — the  old  crawling  out 
place.  You  simpleton,  don't  you  know  with  those 
'ifs'  I  could  pray  to  that  crazy  clock,  my  old  hat,  that 
black  tomcat,  with  just  the  same  hope  of  an  answer  ? 
If  it's  His  will  ?  Isn't  it  His  will  to  save  the  world  ? 
Didn't  He  let  His  Son  be  murdered  for  that  purpose  ? 
For  nineteen  centuries  ten  millions  of  deluded  fools 
have  been  praying  for  the  same  thing  and  the  damned 
old  world  is  going  to  the  same  old  liell  just  the  same. 
You  can't,  to  save  your  life,  put  your  finger  on  a 
single  soul,  from  Adam  to  damned  old  Whaley,  and 
convince  anybody  but  an  idiot  whether  he's  saved  or 
not.  And  here  you  go  on  droning  your  prayers  and 
preaching  your  tommy-rot  till  domesday.  'Now,  if 
you  want  to  try  a  prayer  of  faith,  according  to  His 
will,  pray  that  I  be  free  of  this  pain  in  ten  minutes. 
That  will  give  you  time  enough  to  reach  headquarters. 
!N^o,  you  wouldn't  pray  any  such  prayer.  Well,  then, 
pray,  do  your  damnedest,  that  I  be  dead  as  a  mummy 
in  ten  minutes.  Your  God  ought  to  find  that  an  easy 
one — but  He  can't  answer  it.  He  can't  kill  a  wretched 
old  blasphemer,  that  defies  Him,  till  this  body  plays 


3n  tfte  ©fiaaoto  of  ©oD^        lor 

out,  till  !N'atiire  gets  ready.  No,  He  never  heard  a 
prayer  and  He  never  will  hear  one.  He's  as  imper- 
sonal as  the  air  and  sunshine.  What  you  call  God  is 
a  superstition  of  the  soul — there's  no  God  but  Nat- 
ure's laws,  and  they  will  no  more  heed  your  sniffling 
than  the  cry  of  the  cayote  caught  in  a  trap. 

"Ten  minutes  for  your  God  to  stop  this  pain  or  put 
me  out  of  my  misery  for  quits.  Take  your  choice. 
Damn  your  God !" 

He  broke  into  a  sarcastic  laugh.  Then  calming 
himself,  he  went  on : 

"You  wouldn't  try  it?  Well,  I  don't  blame  you, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  over  to  hear  your  first 
sermon;  I  always  go  over  to  size  up  the  new  men. 
Usually  that  is  the  end  of  it.  Sometimes  a  parson 
rounds  me  up  before  I  can  get  away  and  gives  me  a 
regular  song  and  dance  of  a  welcome.  Then  he 
learns  of  my  unsavory  reputation  and  doesn't  know 
me  the  next  time  we  meet.  You  fellows  seem  to  have 
a  fancy  for  respectable  sinners.  You  preach  that 
Christ  came  to  save  the  lost,  but  you  don't  want  them 
too  damned  lost.  But  I  liked  your  looks.  You've 
got  brains,  if  you  are  throwing  them  away " 

He  sank  back  on  the  pillows,  seized  with  a  paroxism 
of  pain.    He  closed  his  eyes  and  was  silent. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  them  the  truth  ?"  he  said,  after 
a  little,  starting  up.  "Instead  of  preaching  hell  and 
brimstone  hereafter,  tell  them  it  is  here  in  this  life. 


108         3n  tbt  S)|)aDoto  of  ©oO^ 

Oh,  the  fools!  They  lead  their  narrow,  selfish  lives; 
make  the  most  of  their  animal  impulses,  then  when 
all  the  vitality  is  squeezed  out  of  the  flesh,  in  their 
impotency  they  turn  to  God,  thinking  a  few  tears,  a 
prayer,  a  foolish  ceremony  will  win  them  an  eternal 
glory.  The  fools,  crying  to  Christ  who  could  not  save 
himself.  He  didn't  die  for  men,  but  because  of  men. 
To  make  Him  forgive  sins,  to  save  men  from  a  hell 
hereafter,  is  to  make  Him  a  fraud  and  a  failure ;  to 
teach  that  He  saves  men  from  their  worst  selves  here, 
by  seeking  to  live  as  He  lived,  is  to  make  Him  the  best 
and  greatest  man  the  world  has  ever  known.  But  He 
condemned  the  hypocritical  lives  of  men  and  they 
killed  Him.  Go  tell  men  that  they  save  or  damn 
themselves  as  they  live  or  refuse  to  live  like  Christ — 
throw  your  creeds,  dogmas,  mechanical  formulas,  to 
the  devil,  the  author  of  them.  I  know  what  hell  is — 
I've  been  in  it  thirty  years;  and  no  Christ,  no  God, 
no  devil,  no  power  on  earth  or  in  heaven,  can  get  me 
out.  But  I'll  not  preach — that's  more  in  your  line," 
he  broke  off  with  a  bitter  smile,  a  pathetic  gloom 
settling  in  his  eyes. 

"I  guess  you  wonder  why  I  sent  for  you  ?"  he  said 
after  an  instant.  "Because  you  are  a  man;  because 
you  had  a  kindly  face ;  because  you  are  trying  to  be 
honest.  It's  a  man  I  want,  not  a  God.  It's  human 
sympathy  the  soul  cries  out  for,  not  a  vague,  imper- 
sonal something  called  God.     The  reason  men  made 


In  tbt  ©feaDoto  of  ©oD*        109 

a  God  of  Christ  was  because  He  was  so  human;  be- 
cause of  His  gentleness,  His  mercy,  His  love.  I 
could  cry  out  to  Christ,  but  He's  dead,  dead  as 
Socrates  and  Moses ;  He  can't  hear  me,  can't  talk  to 
me.  I  refused  to  live  the  life  He  taught,  rejected  all 
He  might  have  been  to  me — what  I  want  now  is 
human  companionship,  sympathy,  the  touch  of  a  live 
hand,  the  look  of  an  honest  eye,  the  sound  of  a 
sincere  voice." 

Marvin  grasped  the  extended  hand  in  silence. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  growing 
feeble.  "I'm  a  miserable  old  sinner — hell  rages  in 
my  bosom.  But  I  once  was  as  young  as  you — had 
health,  friends,  wealth,  brains,  prospects.  I  threw 
them  all  away — and  now  I  lie  dying,  a  damned,  lost 
soul,  the  only  power  left  me  the  power  to  feel  remorse. 
Don't  tell  me  there  is  no  hell — hell  ? — which  way  I 
turn  is  hell  —  myself  am  hell  —  damned,  lost  soul, 
damned,  lost  soul !"  His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  his 
eyes  rolled  vacantly,  he  seemed  to  be  losing  conscious- 
ness when  he  suddenly  flared  up,  looking  into  the 
other's  face : 

"Young  man,  don't  spoil  your  life — don't  spoil 
your  life." 

Marvin  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  silent  room,  hold- 
ing the  old  man's  hand,  listening  to  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  the  purring  of  the  black  cat,  his  heart  full  of 
pity  for  the  miserable  soul  he  could  not  help.    At  last 


110         3n  tfte  e){)aDoto  of  ©oB* 

he  rose  and  crept  from  the  room.  He  paused  in  the 
door  and  glanced  back  to  the  bed — the  gaunt  form 
and  contorted  face  haunted  him  for  days. 

The  next  day  he  began  a  new  picture — "The  Lost 
Soul." 


In  tht  g>l)a»oto  of  <eoD*         m 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A  luminous  day  late  in  December,  Marvin  rode 
across  the  dun  stretches,  his  sketch  book  in  hand.  It 
was  one  of  those  balmy,  delusive  days,  common  to  that 
section,  that  makes  the  uninitiated  think  Spring  has 
prematurely  arrived,  but  to  the  old  timer  and  weather- 
wise  only  a  presage  and  warning  of  the  "norther" 
that  is  on  the  way.  As  Marvin's  eyes  followed  the 
white  tortuous  gleam  of  the  river,  he  saw  rising  from 
the  earth  a  greenish-black  curtain  that  spread  rapidly 
over  the  west,  as  if  unfolded  by  some  unseen  mechan- 
ism. Before  he  was  aware  the  heavens  in  that  direc- 
tion were  blotted  out.  An  ominous  silence  settled  on 
the  plain;  not  a  grass  blade  stirred.  The  air  be- 
came dense,  oppressive.  It  was  as  if  Nature  in  awe 
of  some  unusual  upheaval  of  her  own  making,  had 
held  her  breath.  One  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  im- 
pending danger.  The  cattle  grazing  on  the  uplands 
lifted  their  heads  and,  sniffing  the  air,  sped  in  a  panic 
toward  the  breaks  of  the  river.  In  the  stampede, 
mother  and  offspring  became  separated  and  the  still- 
ness was  soon  alive  with  insistent,  distracted  bellow- 
ing; forlorn,  terror-stricken  bleating.     Then  there 


112         Hn  tfte  ©jMitioto  of  ©oO. 

were  a  few  premonitory  breaths  of  air  belched  from 
out  the  sky,  and  the  storm  broke  in  all  its  fury,  sweep- 
iijg  across  the  prairie  like  a  thousand  keen-edged 
knives,  chilling  to  the  marrow  every  living  thing. 

Marvin  turned  and  galloped  toward  home.  He  had 
not  gone  far  when  a  feeble  cry  struck  his  ear.  He 
stopped  and  listened.  On  a  bluff  his  eye  picked  out 
the  skeleton  outline  of  a  hapless  cow  that  had  stuck 
fast  in  the  rocks.  Below  was  a  month's  old  calf  that 
made  fruitless  efforts  to  reach  her  side. 

"Oh,  the  cruelty  of  I^ature,"  burst  involuntary 
from  his  lips,  as  he  sprang  to  the  ground  and  hurried 
to  the  rescue.  As  he  exerted  himself  to  this  end,  he 
heard  his  name  called,  as  if  from  the  spaces  of 
heaven. 

"Brother  Garner,  you  better  let  the  cow  be  and  look 
out  for  yourself — lots  of  them  die  in  these  northers." 

He  stood  up  and  confronted  Ida.  She  was-  sitting 
on  her  pony  at  the  top  of  the  butte  watching  his 
maneuvers.  The  wind  played  havoc  with  her  hair 
and  it  floated  about  her  face  like  stranded  sea  weeds. 
He  stared  at  her  a  moment  as  if  she  were  an  appari- 
tion. 

"Miss  Ida,  what  are  you  doing  on  the  prairie  in 
this  storm  ?" 

Slie  explained  that  she  was  returning  from  Dugout 
Town  when  she  saw  him,  and,  thinking  he  had  lost 
the  way,  followed.     "They  wouldn't  likely  make  it 


In  tht  ©feaDPto  of  aoO*         iis 

through  the  winter,  anyway,"  she  said,  referring 
again  to  the  helpless  animals. 

"But  how  heartless  to  leave  them  to  freeze  this 
way,''  he  replied,  renewing  his  efforts. 

"Oh,  we  never  think  of  that.  It's  cheaper  to  let  a 
few  hundred  starve  and  freeze  than  to  feed  and 
shelter  them.  In  the  spring  the  prairie  will  be  dotted 
with  their  bones." 

Marvin  worked  on  obliviously.  Seeing  that  he 
persisted  in  his  purpose,  she  dismounted  and  went  to 
his  assistance.  Between  them  they  succeeded  in  free- 
ing the  cow.  She  went  tottering  down  the  declivity 
to  her  offspring.  Turning  her  back  to  the  fierce  wind 
she  sought  to  shield  it  between  her  legs,  pressing  her 
neck  against  its  quivering  side  in  further  effort  to 
protect  it.  Thus  bent  against  the  storm,  weak  till 
she  could  scarcely  stand,  the  cold  cutting  into  every 
nerve,  the  mother  instinct  made  the  dumb  animal, 
in  Marvin's  thoughts,  heroically  human.  As  he 
looked  at  the  trembling  bits  of  life,  utterly  defense- 
less against  the  pitiless  elements,  the  thoughts  came 
to  his  mind  that  had  come  to  him  months  before  as 
he  knelt  in  a  wood  and  prayed  for  the  salvation  of 
fifty  souls,  the  prayer  and  praise  of  a  multitude 
breaking  on  his  ear.  Then  the  question  was,  does 
God  hear  the  cry  only  of  the  strong  and  great?  Do 
the  weak  things  that  creep  and  crawl  have  no  voice 
to  reach  his  ear  ?    I^ow  it  was  the  same  question,  and 


114!         3n  m  SbaDoto  of  ©oti* 

with  it  the  same  old  doubt  that  he  sought  vainly 
to  stifle.  God  does  not  help  the  weak;  therefore  he 
does  not  help  the  strong.  Perhaps  Col.  Whaley  was 
right — God  is  impersonal — another  name  for  the 
inevitable,  relentless  laws  of  Nature. 

The  cow,  under  the  lash  of  the  wind,  lifted  her 
head,  her  dumb,  pathetic  eyes,  staring  a  mute  ap- 
peal to  the  sky.  | 

*^Why,  I  do  believe  she's  praying,"  said  Ida, 
touched  by  the  suggestive  attitude.  Marvin,  follow- 
ing his  thoughts,  answered:  "And  no  one  to  hear  her 
prayers  but  us,  and  we  powerless  to  heed  them." 

It  became  suddenly  darker  and  a  white  mist  filled 
the  air.  Ida  sprang  to  her  horse.  "We  must  get 
out  of  this.  Brother  Garner.  It's  going  to  snow,  and 
if  we  get  lost  out  here " 

"There'll  be  no  one  to  answer  our  prayers." 

He  still  thought  of  the  cow  and  calf  that  he  knew 
to-morrow  would  lay  stark  beneath  the  snow. 

They  galloped  across  the  prairie.  The  storm  grew 
in  violence,  and  the  landmarks  rapidly  disappeared. 
Marvin  grasped  Ida's  bridle  that  they  might  not  be- 
come separated.  At  length  they  came  to  a  gate  that 
opened  into  a  wide  lane  that  led  to  Benvanue.  When 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  village,  night  had  settled 
and  the  blizzard  continued  to  increase  in  violence. 
It  was  with  difficulty  that  they  urged  their  horses 
against  the  blinding  sweep  of  snow,  and  as  last  they 


In  tfte  ®J)aDoto  of  ©oD^         115 

were  forced  to  get  down  and  walk.  Reaching  the 
parsonage,  Ida  suggested  that  they  go  in  and  wait 
till  the  storm  abated. 

"But  won't  your  parents  be  uneasy?"  Marvin 
asked,  not  liking  the  idea.    "I  think  we  can  make  it." 

"No;  they'll  think  I'm  at  Dugout  Town.  I  spend 
the  night  there  sometimes — I'm  nearly  frozen — and 
you  promised  I  might  see  The  Spirit  of  the 
Prairie.'  " 

They  had  reached  the  gate  and  he  threw  it  open. 
Ida  entered,  not  waiting  for  further  invitation.  He 
was  conscious  that  in  thus  yielding  he  had  acted 
unwisely,  but  he  could  not  summon  a  refusal  that 
would  not  sound  harsh.  He  led  the  horses  to  shelter, 
and  when  he  entered  the  parsonage,  he  found  Ida  on 
her  knees  in  front  of  the  box  stove,  kindling  the  fire. 

"You  see  I'm  making  myself  at  home,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  with  glowing  eyes.  He  knelt  be- 
side her  and  they  soon  had  the  fire  going  briskly  as 
they  fed  it  with  driftwood  from  the  river  and  white- 
pine  boards  from  the  store.  Night  had  settled  thick 
without  and  the  room  was  in  darkness  save  where  the 
open  door  of  the  roaring  stove  flooded  the  end  of  the 
room  with  a  fan-shaped  radiance.  In  the  heart  of 
this  they  sat,  their  arms  touching  as  they  leaned  for- 
ward, gazing  into  the  popping  fire.  Marvin  had  a 
passing  sense  of  pleasure  at  this  unexpected  com- 
panionship in  his  bleak  quarters.     He  did  not  draw 


116         M  tfie  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oD* 

himself  away,  and  they  sat  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"Ain't  it  jolly  ?"  Ida  said  presently,  turning  and 
looking  into  his  eyes.  "It's  most  like  camping  out — 
and  I  do  like  that.  You  must  go  with  us  on  our 
trips  next  spring." 

Marvin  expressed  his  pleasure  at  the  prospect. 

"Now,  ain't  you  glad  I  stopped  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  polite  to  say  no,"  he  returned, 
evasively. 

"No,  don't  you  dare  to  or  I'll  plunge  out  in  the 
blizzard  and  lose  myself." 

"Please  don't.  Miss  Ida,'*  he  said,  seizing  her  arm 
as  if  to  restrain  her. 

She  thrust  to  the  stove  door. 

"Oh,  how  dark.  Get  a  light  quick,"  she  cried, 
clinging  to  him  as  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

When  a  light  was  struck,  she  stood  an  instant  sur- 
veying the  room. 

"Where  are  the  pictures  ?"  she  asked,  disappointed. 

Marvin  climbed  to  the  attic  and  returned  with 
"The  Spirit  of  the  Prairie."  When  it  had  been  ar- 
ranged so  that  the  light  fell  on  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, Ida,  though  not  a  competent  judge,  burst  into 
exclamations  of  approval. 

"Why,  Brother  Garner,  you  are  an  artist— and 
you've  made  me  look  beautiful." 

"I  had  a  beautiful  subject." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  she  returned,  glancing  up  quickly, 


3n  tbt  SftaDoto  of  ©dd>        117 

her  eyes  shining.    '^Now  show  me  the  others,  please." 

He  brought  them  down  one  at  a  time  and  placed 
them  in  odd  corners  about  the  room. 

Ida  stared  open-eyed. 

"Did  you  paint  them  all — that  one?"  she  asked, 
nodding  her  head  shyly  toward  a  nude. 

"Yes;  that's  a  symbolical  treatment  of  Spring." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  have  dreamed  that  a  preacher 
painted  it." 

Marvin  appeared  not  to  hear.  "Here  is  one  I  call 
The  Lost  Soul.'  " 

"What  an  awfully  horrid  face — ^why,  Brother  Gar- 
ner, is  that  Col.  Whaley  ?" 

When  at  last  they  thought  of  the  hour,  it  was  past 
midnight.  Marvin  opened  the  door  and  peered  out. 
The  slit  of  light  lit  up  a  grey  wall  of  madly  whirling 
snow;  the  wind  roared  across  the  prairie  like  an  en- 
raged demon.  He  slammed  to  the  door,  and  they 
stood  staring  at  each  other  blankly. 

"Miss  Ida,  you  can't  go  home  to-night." 

"Oh,  I  must,  I  must,"  she  cried,  starting  up  in 
alarm.  But  when  they  had  discussed  the  matter,  they 
knew  that  it  was  not  possible. 

Ida  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable.  She  became 
unseemly  cheerful  and  Marvin  thought  he  detected  a 
suppressed  elation  at  the  outcome  of  their  adventure. 

"This  is  just  my  luck,"  she  began,  presently,  re- 
clining in  an  easy  position  in  the  rocker,  her  arms 


118         3n  tfte  SftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

crossed  above  her  head.  "I  was  camping  with  the 
Browns,  of  Iletta,  one  spring,  and  Charley,  an  aw- 
fully cute  chap,  and  myself  w^ere  riding  on  the  prairie 
one  afternoon  when  there  came  up  a  thunder  shower. 
We  knew  we'd  get  drenched  before  we  could  make 
the  camp,  so  w^e  galloped  about  looking  for  some  kind 
of  shelter.  We  found  an  old  dugout  the  cowboys  had 
abandoned,  and  hurried  into  it.  The  roof  had  caved 
in  and  we  had  to  sit  all  doubled  up.  When  it  began 
to  rain  it  was  almost  dark  as  night,  and  water  trickled 
through  and  ran  down  our  backs.  Charley  kept  hold- 
ing my  hand  and  asking  me  if  I  was  afraid.  Now, 
wasn't  that  silly  ?  But  Charley  is  a  great  flirt.  He 
does  all  the  girls  that  way  and  we  don't  mind  him. 
Well,  there  we  sat  holding  each  other's  hands  in  the 
dark — think  of  it — till  the  water  rose  to  the  tops  of 
our  shoes.  Then  w^e  had  to  get  out.  It  was  still 
pouring  down  and  by  the  time  we  reached  camp  we 
looked  like  drowned  rats.  This  is  a  regular  snap. 
Now,  ain't  it  cozy  ?" 

Marvin  was  uncomfortable,  uneasy.  Somehow  he 
was  filled  with  a  secret  dread. 

^^Well,  we  are  at  least  dry  and  warm,"  he  said, 
glancing  about  the  room.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  bare 
spot  where  had  rested  the  supply  of  wood  for  the 
night.  ^'Why,  Miss  Ida,"  he  cried,  in  alarm,  "we've 
used  all  our  fuel." 

"Now,  that's  too  bad." 


an  tfie  ©ijaDoto  of  &oi},         119 

In  fact  the  fire  had  begun  to  burn  low.  The  stove 
that  a  few  minutes  ago  glowed  red,  had  faded  to  its 
wonted  color  of  dirty  broAvn.  The  house  was  rudely 
constructed  and  through  crevices  about  the  door  and 
windows  a  fine  white  powder  sifted  into  the  room. 
As  it  grew  colder  they  pulled  their  chairs  closer  and 
closer  to  the  stove,  until  at  last  they  huddled  against 
its  sides.  Then  the  fire  burned  itself  out.  The  tem- 
perature dropped  to  freezing. 

"Hadn't  I  better  try  to  get  you  home,  Miss  Ida  ?" 
Marvin  asked,  tentatively. 

"Oh,  they  wouldn't  expect  me  now." 

He  went  to  the  door  and,  opening  it  a  fraction, 
peered  out.    The  blizzard  still  raged. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  to  bed;  you'll  freeze  if 
you  don't." 

"But  what  will  you  do  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  I'll  go  upstairs  and  manage  somehow.  I 
can  keep  moving  till  morning." 

"But  I'll  be  frightened  to  death  alone  in  the  dark." 

"You  can  keep  the  light  burning." 

"Oh,  I'd  see  all  kinds  of  horrible  things  staring  at 
me  through  the  window." 

"But  we'll  freeze  sitting  here,"  he  insisted. 

"Yes,  we  will,"  she  admitted. 

He  took  the  key  from  the  door  opening  onto  the 
stairway.  "Here,  Miss  Ida,  you  must  go  to  bed. 
Lock  the  door  when  I  go  up,  and  blow  out  the  light 


120         3n  tlje  ©ftaDoto  of  <a)oD^ 

There's  nothing  to  fear.  Xo  one  would  venture  out 
such  a  night  as  this." 

"!N"o,  no,  I  can't,"  she  cried,  pushing  the  key  from 
her.  "I'm  afraid  to  be  down  here  alone."  She  bent 
forward,  her  face  in  her  hands.  "Oh,  what  shall  we 
do,  Brother  Garner  ?  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  like 
this — and  we  were  having  such  a  jolly  visit " 

"That's  the  question,"  he  returned,  perplexed. 
"What  shall  we  do  ?"  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
restrained  a  growing  irritation.  He  saw  now  how 
foolish  he  had  been  in  yielding  to  her  wish. 

"Miss  Ida,  you  must  go  to  bed.  It's  out  of  the 
question  your  sitting  up  longer,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Oh,  please  don't  scold,"  she  said  humbly;  "I'm 
awfully  sorry  it's — it's  turned  out  this  way." 

"I'm  not  scolding,"  he  insisted,  relenting  a  little ; 
"but  you  mustn't  freeze." 

"Nor  you,"  she  said  solicitously.  She  stood  up 
suddenly,  her  eyes  bright  with  the  purpose  that  moved 
her.  "I  know  a  plan,"  she  ventured  timidly;  "if 
you  wouldn't  mind — we — ^we  could  sit  close  together 
on  the  bed — and  wrap  up  with  the  quilts — I've  done 
that  camping  out " 

Marvin  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  "No,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Ida's  head  drooped  forlornly,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 
There  was  a  troubled  intake  of  breath.  Marvin's 
thoughts  were  sadly  confused,    His  rejection  of  her 


In  t8e  ®6alioto  of  ©oD^         121 

proposal  seemed  to  put  a  questionable  color  upon  it; 
to  accept  it  seemed  foolish.  Perhaps  a  trial  would 
convince  her  of  this. 

"We  might  try  your  plan,  Miss  Ida — we  must  do 
something." 

'^No,  you  don't  think  it  proper,"  she  mumbled,  not 
looking  up. 

"Proper  or  not — we  mustn't  freeze." 

"Well,  come  on,  then,"  she  said  walking  to  the  Led. 
"I'm  chilled  to  the  bone." 

She  lifted  the  covers  so  that  they  could  be  easily 
drawn  about  their  shoulders,  and,  sitting  down, 
waited  for  him  to  take  his  place  beside  her.  This  he 
did.  They  tucked  in  the  quilts,  their  arms  interlaced 
as  they  held  them  in  place.  It  was  if  they  sat  in 
close  embrace.  The  warmth  of  their  bodies,  thus 
husbanded,  they  were  soon  in  a  comfortable  glow. 
They  could  feel  the  beating  of  each  other's  hearts, 
and  their  breathing  brought  their  bosoms  together 
in  gentle,  recurrent  pressures.  They  sat  for  some- 
time in  silence.  Marvin's  imagination  was  keenly 
active.  He  was  thinking  how  awkward  it  would  be 
if  a  citizen  of  Benvanue  should  glance  through  the 
window  at  this  juncture,  and  how  difficult  an  ex- 
planation. 

Ida  seemed  to  sense  her  companion's  uneasiness 
and  sat  silently  staring  at  the  curtainless  window. 
Her  buoyant  spirit  had  forsaken  her.       An  hour 


122         3n  tfte  ^ftaOoto  of  ©oD* 

dragged  by,  and  Marviu  found  the  strained  position 
already  growing  extremely  irksome.  One  of  his  legs 
had  gone  to  sleep,  but  he  dared  not  move  for  fear  of 
disarranging  the  quilts  and  letting  in  the  cold.  He 
could  feel  Ida's  body  sagging  with  increasing  weight 
against  his.  It  was  with  a  painful  effort  that  he 
maintained  his  upright  position.  Their  breath  had 
frozen  a  crust  of  ice  on  the  covers ;  beneath  the  door 
and  windows  were  heaps  of  snow,  and  the  wind 
shrieked  with  growing  fury  about  the  rude  structure 
and  swept  through  the  room  with  an  icy  menace. 

"I'm  getting  awfully  tired,"  said  Ida  at  last. 
**Why  can't  we  lay  back  on  the  bed  and  rest  ?" 

"Here  goes,"  said  Marvin,  desperately.  They  sank 
back  simultaneously  and  found  themselves  in  each 
other's  arms,  their  faces  touching. 

Another  hour  had  passed,  when  Marvin's  anxious 
ear  caught  the  faint  crunching  of  snow,  and  he  could 
trace  the  course  of  feet  battling  the  storm. 

"What  is  it  ?"  Ida  whispered,  fearfully. 

"Cow  or  horse,"  Marvin  answered,  reassuringly, 
but  trembling  with  a  sense  of  impending  danger. 

The  window  was  suddenly  rattled  violently.  Mar- 
vin lay  breathless;  he  seemed  powerless  to  move. 
Then  the  pounding  grew  insistent,  and  a  hoarse  voice 
cried  threateningly:   "Open  up,  open  up." 

Marvin  sprang  from  the  bed,  tossing  the  quilts  over 
Ida,  scarcely  realizing  that  he  did  so,  or  the  motive 


In  tfte  @J)aDoto  of  &oti,         123 

prompting  the  act.  ^^Come  in,  come  in,"  he  called, 
stepping  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  door  was 
flung  wide  and  Grogan,  snow-encrusted,  wild-eyed, 
stood  blinking  into  his  face. 

"Brother  Grogan,"  Marvin  gasped. 

"Where's  Ida  ?"  the  other  asked,  glancing  about 
the  room.  "Hutton  said  he  saw  you  together  on  the 
prairie  just  before  the  storm  broke." 

Marvin  stood  like  one  suddenly  struck  dumb,  his 
mind  running  on  ahead  searching  his  brain  for  the 
most  fitting  explanation,  that  he  now  saw  was  in- 
evitable. 

"Where's  Ida?"  Grogan  demanded  fiercely,  step- 
ping nearer. 

"She's — here,"  Marvin  stammered.  ".We  gol! 
caught  in  the  blizzard — we " 

"Ida,"  he  called,  striding  to  the  bed. 

His  daughter  rose  from  the  quilts  and  stood  trem- 
bling before  him,  her  dishevelled  hair  falling  about 
her  shoulders  and  hiding  her  downcast  eyes. 

"Ida,  why  didn't  you  come  home  ? — what  are  you 
doing  here  ?"  he  thundered,  grasping  her  arm  roughly. 

"Oh,  pa,  it  was  blowing  terribly — and  we  stopped 
— we  thought  it  wouldn't  last  long — but  it  got  harder 
and  harder — we  couldn't  get  home " 

Grogan  glared  a  moment  at  the  drooping,  shiver- 
ing figure ;  glanced  to  the  bed  where  she  had  lain,  at 
the  fireless  stove,  at  the  pictures  scattered  about  the 


124        M  tbt  ^baootD  of  aoD. 

room,  then,  throwing  the  wraps  he  carried  about  her, 
pushed  her  into  the  storm.  He  did  not  look  back,  nor 
did  he  turn  to  close  the  door. 

Marvin  stood  some  minutes,  staring  into  the  wild 
night  at  the  point  where  they  disappeared,  the  snow 
whirling  about  him  and  settling  down  thick  on  his 
clothes.  Mechanically  he  moved  to  the  door,  shut  it. 
He  glanced  about  the  room  in  a  dazed,  unseeing  way, 
blew  out  the  light  and  crawled  into  bed.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  numbing  pain  in  his  breast  as  if  a 
hbavy  weight  had  been  cast  upon  him. 


In  tjbe  ^i)aDobi  of  <$oD«        125 


CHAPTER   V. 

When  Marvin  woke  the  next  morning,  a  blinding 
glare  of  light  streamed  through  the  uncurtained  win- 
dow. He  threw  on  his  overcoat  and  stepped  out  into 
the  open.  A  silent  world  of  white  lay  beneath  the 
eye;  lifted  against  the  clear  sky  a  scintillating  radi- 
ance. It  was  as  if  he  gazed  on  a  field  of  alabaster 
strewn  with  powdered  diamonds.  From  the  crystalline 
vaults  a  new-faced  sun  glowed  an  orb  of  molten  gold. 
He  stood  dumb  before  the  miracle  of  color,  his  senses 
tingling  with  the  keenest  delight.  The  incidents  of 
the  night  came  to  him  as  the  unrealities  of  a  dream. 
But  there  was  present  an  uneasy  premonition  of 
threatening  disaster,  and  that  it  would  work  some 
radical  change  in  his  life.  His  mood  fluctuated  from 
deepest  gloom  to  exultant  buoyancy.  When  he 
thought  of  his  mother  he  was  sad  almost  to  despair; 
"when  he  contemplated  a  release  from  the  yoke  of  his 
bondage  he  laughed  aloud  with  joy. 

But  the  day  passed  and  nothing  transpired  to 
justify  his  presentiments ;  and  as  he  began  to  go  over 
the  situation  he  felt  that  his  fears  were  ill-founded. 
Grogan  could  take  no  step  to  injure  him  that  would 


126         3n  tfie  SftaDoto  of  (SoD* 

not  compromise  his  daughter.  She,  it  was,  who  would 
suffer  the  most.  He  imagined  her  keen  humiliation 
under  her  father's  censure  and  condemnation  and 
resolved  at  the  earliest  opportunity  to  see  him  and 
take  all  the  blame  for  the  night's  adventure  upon  him- 
self. But  the  weather  held  him  a  prisoner  for  some 
days,  then  the  unhappy  episode  faded  to  an  un- 
pleasant memory  as  he  again  became  absorbed  in  his 
work. 

He  sat  one  day,  some  weeks  later,  before  his  easel 
so  intent  upon  his  work  that  he  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  his  own  existence,  when  a  loud  rapping 
brought  him  in  alarm  to  his  feet.  His  palette  and 
brush  still  in  his  hand,  he  opened  the  door.  A  half- 
dozen  grizzly,  weather-beaten  faces  were  lifted  to  him 
from  the  steps. 

^^Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said  cordially.  The  men 
filed  in,  their  eyes  on  the  floor,  touching  gingerly 
Marvin's  proffered  hand,  as  he  greeted  each  one  by 
name.  There  were  only  two  chairs  in  the  room  and 
these  Marvin  brought  forward.  Fulton,  his  official 
from  Big  Bend,  plumped  down  in  the  rocker  with  an 
air  of  proprietorship ;  his  tanned  face  bristled  with  a 
black,  brush-like  beard,  and  as  he  turned  his  sunken, 
beady  eyes  furtively  toward  Marvin,  his  head  was 
not  unlike  that  of  some  shaggy  animal.  Grogan 
seated  himself  in  the  cane-bottomed  chair  that  the 
artist  had  just  pushed  back  from  the  easel.    Marvin 


In  the  ®|)aDoto  of  ©oD*         127 

turned  to  remove  some  things  from  the  bed  so  that  it 
might  be  pressed  into  service  as  a  settee.  When  he 
faced  about,  he  found  his  visitors  staring  open-eyed 
upon  the  nude  figure  of  "Spring."  There  was  a  pain- 
ful silence,  during  which  he  glanced  from  face  to 
face  inquiringly.  A  month  ago  these  men  regarded 
him  with  admiration  little  short  of  reverence;  his 
word  was  law,  his  influence  dominating.  To  them  he 
was  an  idol.  Because  of  him  they  had  become  hero 
worshippers.  Kow,  he  knew  they  condemned  him 
unheard. 

"Whar'd  that  come  from  V  asked  Fulton,  pointing 
to  the  offending  picture. 

Marvin  recognized  that  any  attempt  toward  con- 
ciliation would  be  futile  in  the  presence  of  the  in- 
criminating evidence  of  his  guilt.  And  though  he 
tried  to  smother  it,  deep  in  his  soul  there  glowed  a 
hope  that  the  action  of  these  men  would  give  him  an 
excuse  to  break  with  his  ill-advised  career.  He 
stepped  to  the  picture  and  turned  it  to  a  better  light. 

"That  is  some  of  my  work." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Brother  Garner,  that  you 
made  that  ?"  asked  Fulton,  incredulously. 

"Yes;  I  painted  it." 

"I  swan,"  blurted  Fulton. 

The  men  glanced  at  each  other  sheepishly,  their 
eyes  flashing  back  to  the  nude  as  if  irresistibly  under 
its  spell. 


128         3n  tU  ^l^aDota)  of  0oti« 

"Sit  down,  men,  an'  let's  git  to  bizness,"  com- 
manded Fulton. 

The  men  silently  arranged  themselves  along  the 
edge  of  the  bed. 

"Brother  Garner,  I  guess  you  know  what  we  come 
yere  fer?''   said  Fulton,   with  business-like  direct- 


"No ;  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do." 

"Well,  it's  them  pichers.  When  I  herd  it  goin' 
ronn'  the  prairie  that  you'z  puttin'  in  yer  time  makin' 
pichers  of  naked  wimin,  I  said  it  weren't  so,  but  seein' 
is  believin',  an'  you  don't  deny  makin'  'em  ?" 

"I  rather  think  I'm  proud  I  can  do  it,"  returned 
Marvin,  with  calm  indifference. 

"Well,  I'd  a-never  believed  a  man  that  can  preach 
the  powerful  sermons  as  you  do  would  'a'  'loud  naked 
wimin  in  his  house,  much  less  to  'a'  made  'em,  an' 
havin'  'em  where  they'd  stare  you  in  the  face  every 
minit  of  the  day,  rousin'  the  flesh.  It  'ud  make  a  ol' 
man  like  me  lose  his  religin,  an'  how  you've  got  a 
spark  of  grace  in  yer  heart  after  makin'  that  crea- 
ture's more'n  I  can  tell.  The  thoughts  you  must  'a' 
had  in  yer  head  to  'a'  done  it.  I've  been  married 
twenty  year  an'  never  afore  have  I  seen  a  woman  in 
all  her  wicked  nakedness  like  you've  made  that  one. 
Don't  seem  reasonable  that  a  man  who  can  draw  tears 
from  yer  eyes  could  find  room  in  his  heart  for  images 
of  the  scarlet  woman.     It's  onreasonable.     I  swan. 


3tt  tht  Si>aDoto  of  &oti.        129 

if  I  hadn't  heard  you  preach,  I'd  swear  you'd  missed 
yer  callin',  though  why  the  good  God  gives  men  power 
to  do  sech  wicked  work  is  more'n  I  can  guess.  Makes 
me  feel  like  the  way  I  do  when  I  pass  the  Red  Lights 
over  to  Retta."  ' 

The  men  still  stared  at  the  helpless  picture.  A 
spell  of  fascinated  embarrassment  seemed  to  hold 
them.  Fulton  and  Grogan  alone  maintained  an  out- 
ward show  of  composure.  The  former  leaned  back  in 
the  rocker  and  let  his  black  beard  drop  on  his  boson 
in  judicial  poise.  He  turned  his  eyes  on  Marvin  as 
if  he  had  been  some  strange,  mysterious  animal  ho 
could  not  fathom. 

"Brother  Garner,  there  ain't  no  use  beatin'  roun' 
the  bush — the  fact  is,  knowin'  what  we  do,  we 
wouldn't  like  to  hear  you  preach  no  more.  We  owe 
it  to  our  wimin  an'  children  to  withdraw  our  financial 
an'  moral  support.  We  can't  ast  you  to  leave,  though 
it  might  be  the  best  thing  you  could  do ;  but  we  here- 
with notify  you  that  we'll  prefer  charges  of  immoral- 
ity agin  you  at  the  nex'  quarterly  conference.  That's 
what  we  decided  on  up  at  Grogan's  store  if  we  found 
the  reports  'bout  the  naked  woman  was  true — an'  you 
ain't  denied  nothin'." 

"But  I  do  deny  being  guilty  of  immorality  of  any 
kind,''  Marvin  said,  emphatically. 

"Well,  you  know  what  the  Scripchers  says  'bout 
iookin'  on  wimin  an'  so  forth,  an'  I  can't  see,  after 


130         M  tfte  ©baDoto  of  ©oB/ 

havin'  them  naked  images  in  yer  min'  an'  'fore  yer 
eyes,  as  it  would  be  any  worse  to  'a'  had  'em  in  yer 
arms.  What  you  want  to  do,  Brother  Marvin,  is  to 
marry.  A  few  weeks  of  married  life  'ud  git  them 
images  of  the  scarlet  woman  outen  yer  'magination. 
!N'othin'll  bring  yer  passions  an'  'cupiscences  to  their 
senses,  as  the  Bible  says,  like  a  woman  of  yer  own. 
You  know  St.  Paul  says,  ^better  marry  than  burn,' 
an'  that's  the  text  you  want  to  put  in  practice.  Ain't 
I  'bout  right,  men?"  The  men  pulled  their  eyes  off 
the  nude  an  instant  and  nodded  approval. 

"Well,  men,  I  reckin  that's  'bout  all  we've  got  to 
say,"  said  Fulton,  rising.    "I  must  be  goin'." 

Marvin  held  open  the  door  and  the  men  filed  out, 
bobbing  their  heads  and  mumbling  as  they  passed. 
He  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  to  think  the  new 
situation  over,  when  there  was  a  feeble  knock.  "Come 
in,"  Marvin  called. 

Brown,  of  Yellow  Prairie,  slipped  quietly  in.  He 
had  forgotten  a  package.  When  the  artist  found  it 
and  placed  it  in  his  hand,  he  still  stood  hesitating, 
regarding  the  other  in  perplexity. 

"Brother  Garner,  I'm  awful  sorry,"  he  began  at 
last.  "I — I  want  you  to  know  I  don't  believe  you 
meant  no  wrong.  An' — an' — ^I  understan'  them 
pichers.  But  I'm  feurd  Grogan's  goin'  to  make  it 
awful  hard  fer  you,  but  it  won't  do  no  good  to  say 
nothin'.    Maybe  the  Elder  can  straighten  out  things. 


In  tht  §)6aDoto  of  ©oD*         i3i 

I'm  awful  sorry — good-bye."  He  extended  his  hand 
and  giving  Marvin's  an  awkward  but  hearty  grasp, 
hurried  out. 

Marvin  was  dumb.  Tears  sprang  unbidden  to  his 
eyes.  A  moment  before  he  could  have  defied  the 
world,  fought  the  world — now  he  felt  himself  weak, 
unnerved  at  the  sound  of  a  sympathetic  word.  He 
threw  himself  on  the  bed  and  groaned  aloud. 

"Oh,  God,  what  have  I  done — what  made  you*  let 
me  do  it?" 


132         3n  tht  @)|^aDoto  of  <S^oti. 


CHAPTER   VL 

An  April  day  lay  bright,  warm,  illusive  on  the 
prairie.  Marvin  moved  industriously  about  the  room 
packing  his  few  belongings  for  the  departure  on  the 
morrow.  From  time  to  time  he  paused  and  looked  out 
the  window  on  the  blue-green  world.  At  last  he 
picked  up  his  hat  and  went  out,  swinging  along 
briskly — he  would  have  one  more  day  in  the  open. 
He  bared  his  head  to  the  sunshine  and  soft  breath  of 
Spring  that  rippled  in  the  white  spaces;  and  his 
eyes  on  the  young  world,  every  care  and  hope  dropped 
from  his  mental  horizon.  As  he  looked  into  the  blue 
ocean  above  that  mothered  the  green  ocean  below, 
visions  of  the  vast  silent  life  that  moved  mysteriously 
on  the  bosom  of  the  one,  swept  the  face  of  the  other, 
filled  his  imagination — the  unseen,  unheard  comedies 
and  tragedies  that  played  their  unending  round  be- 
neath the  sun  and  stars,  in  calm  and  storm.  He 
threw  himself  on  his  back  and  gazed  into  the  fathom- 
less spaces;  let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  infinite 
stretches  of  green  and  blue  and  gold.  He  thrilled 
with  a  mystical  exaltation;  felt  himself  akin  to  the 
warm  earth,  the  blue  sky,  the  tilting  grass,  the  pas- 


In  m  ©fiaBoto  of  <©oD*         133 

sionate  hawk  that  screamed  in  the  heavens,  the  glow- 
ing cloud — ^the  vital  essence  that  moved  in  it  all — to 
dream,  to  think,  to  aspire,  to  look  toward  God,  to 
see  God,  to  feel  one's  self  a  god !  He  was  intoxicated 
with  a  tremulous  uplift  of  soul. 

Then  his  eyes  chanced  to  rest  on  a  grey-bearded 
head  that  slowly  rose  from  the  green  bank.  As  he 
looked,  there  followed  the  stooped  outline  of  an  old 
man  leaning  on  a  staff — the  figure  of  Father  Time — 
a  clear-cut  cameo  against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  He 
gazed  at  the  apparition  as  a  creature  of  a  dream. 
But  as  it  hobbled  forward,  he  recognized  Colonel 
iWhaley.  That  miserable  old  pessimist  had  not  died 
as  he  had  hoped,  and  as  Marvin  had  expected.  Mar- 
vin rose  and  greeted  him. 

"Damn  you,  don't  you  know  you  are  liable  for 
trespass  ?"  the  Colonel  blurted  in  an  emotionless  bark, 
his  face  like  a  tragic  mask.  "I'll  have  no  renegade 
preacher,  obscene  dauber,  on  my  land." 

Marvin  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment.  He  had 
felt  a  great  pity  for  the  wretched  old  sinner;  had 
been  touched  by  his  remorse,  but  surely  he  was  lost 
to  all  human  feeling. 

"I'm  sorry.  Colonel,  but  I  did  not  know  I  had 
wandered  onto  your  premises." 

"Ha,  ha,"  cackled  Whaley,  in  a  mirthless  voice. 
"Oh,  damn  you.  Garner,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  And 
you  might  just  as  well  prayed  for  me,  after  all — 


134         3n  tfte  S)ftaDoto  of  (SoU* 

you  might  have  had  an  answered  prayer  to  your 
credit." 

"I'm  glad — you — are  out,"  stammered  Marvin. 

"And  I'm  glad  you  are  out — damn  'em — the  fools. 
I'd  have  come  over  to  see  you,  but  I  knew  they'd 
hold  it  against  you.  But,  damn  'em,  they  don't 
know  no  better,  and  why  waste  words  on  'em.  But 
it's  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  You 
made  a  mistake.  You  would  never  have  been  con- 
tented to  play  the  God  for  three  hundred  a  year. 
You'll  be  happier  daubing  your  pictures  and  starving. 
There's  no  lower  hell  to  which  a  man  can  sink  than 
self -contempt,  and  in  the  end  you  would  have  come  to 
that.  If  Christ,  who  has  almost  been  lost  to  the 
world  beneath  the  dogmas  and  superstitions  heaped 
upon  pim,  taught  one  thing  worth  while,  it  was  to 
be  true  to  one's  self.  He  gave  humanity  what  He 
alone  could  give  and  it  killed  Him  for  it;  you  have 
dared  to  do  what  you  were  created  to  do,  and  you 
find  yourself  condemned.  But  be  true  to  yourself; 
make  the  most  of  your  instincts — ^your  heaven  or 
hell  depends  upon  that.  You  know  what  you  want 
to  do,  do  it,  though  it  bring  you  a  crown  of  thorns, 
a  cross  between  thieves. 

"ISTo,  don't  try  to  answer  me,"  he  broke  off,  as 
Marvin  essayed  to  speak.  "We  won't  argue.  Ee- 
member  what  I  say  or  forget  it,  Whaley'll  never  know. 

As  the  Colonel  talked,  Marvin  looked  into  his  face, 


In  tbt  SfiaDoto  of  (©oD^         iss 

every  line  of  which  depicted  suffering,  remorse  of 
soul,  and  the  kindly,  peaceful  face  of  his  mother  rose 
before  him.  He  found  himself  wondering  if  the  dif- 
ference in  their  lives  could  be  accounted  for  in  their 
differing  attitudes  toward  God.  Did  the  experiences 
of  life  give  color  to  the  character  of  one's  God?  or 
did  the  character  one  gave  to  his  God  color  his  life  ? 
If  Whaley's  belief  made  him  the  miserable  creature 
he  beheld,  how  infinitely  better  to  hold  to  the  super- 
stitions of  his  mother. 

The  Colonel  inquired  further  of  Marvin's  troubles, 
rumors  of  which  he  had  heard.  He  sat  down  on  the 
ground  close  to  his  side,  leaning  upon  his  stick;  his 
grey  beard  dropped  to  his  hands,  his  eyes  resting  on 
a  lone  peak  that  upreared  on  the  white  distance.  He 
said  nothing  till  Marvin  had  ceased  speaking,  then 
he  turned  and  looked  him  over  as  if  moved  to  new 
interest. 

"May  I  see  your  pictures?"  he  asked.  "I'm  too 
old  to  be  corrupted  by  them,"  he  added,  with  expres- 
sionless irony. 

"I've  just  been  packing,'*  said  Marvin,  when  they 
reached  the  parsonage.  His  pictures  were  heaped  on 
the  bed  and  he  lifted  the  top  one  and  held  it  to  the 
light.  It  was  one  of  the  last  painted — a  large  canvas 
of  a  blizzard-swept  plain.  So  realistic  was  it,  one 
could  almost  hear  the  swish  of  the  wind,  feel  the 
touch  of  cold.     In  the  foreground,  seen  through  the 


136        3n  tht  g)|)aDoto  of  &ot}. 

swirling  snow,  stood  the  gaunt  form  of  a  cow  with 
lifted  head,  a  pathetic  agony  in  her  eyes.  Between 
her  legs  she  protected  a  dying  calf.  Whaley  sat  and 
gazed  a  long  time  with  growing  amazement. 

"Damn,  you.  Garner,  you're  a  genius,"  he  blurted 
presently;  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  could  do 
this?" 

Marvin  murmured  some  words  of  thanks,  as  he 
thrilled  with  the  sincere,  spontaneous  praise.  He 
put  down  "God  in  the  Blizzard,"  as  the  picture  was 
called,  and  took  up  another.  It  was  a  vast,  shadow- 
wrapt  plain ;  the  limitless  stretches  melting  into  black 
voids.  Far  on  the  eastern  horizon  burned  a  feeble 
star.  With  his  back  to  this  only  guiding  ray,  a 
gaunt,  stooped  form,  his  hands  clasped  about  his  eyes, 
sta^ered,  as  if  under  a  burden,  toward  the  abyss. 
The  attitude  was  instinctive  of  hopelessness,  despair. 

Whaley  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  staring,  his  mask- 
like face  breaking  into  lines  of  wonder.  "Why,  damn 
you,  you've  put  me  in  your  picture.  You  scoundrel, 
to  take  advantage  of  a  dying  old  man.  The  idea  is 
all  wrong,  but  the  art  is  great.  But  that's  orthodox, 
how  could  they  condemn  your  pictures  ?" 

Marvin  smiled.  "They  did  not  see  them — I  mean 
they  could  not  understand.  Here  is  one  they  seemed 
to  appreciate.  This  is  Fulton's  Scarlet  Woman." 
It  was  simple  enough.  There  was  a  background  of 
vague,  dreamy  sky,  against  which  floated  glistening 


In  tbt  ®f)aDoto  of  ©oD*         137 

yellow  clouds,  their  shadows  cool  on  the  green  below. 
In  the  foreground,  stretched  upon  a  bank,  ablaze  with 
a  tangle  of  wild  flowers,  was  a  nude  girl  watching  the 
coquetting  of  lover  butterflies. 

"I  see — I  see  it  all  now — the  fools  to  think  that 
vulgar — the  fools !  Garner,  damn  you,  you've  got  a 
career  before  you.  You'll  never  be  happy — ^but  you'll 
be  famous.  Before  you  are  half  as  old  as  I  your 
pictures  will  be  in  the  galleries  of  the  world,  you'll 
be  a  great  American  painter.  I've  been  in  all  the 
galleries  of  Europe — seen  all  the  masters,  and  I  know 
originality  when  I  see  it.  Stick  to  art."  He  paused, 
his  eyes  on  "The  Lost  Soul,"  then  he  turned  to  go. 
"Good-bye,"  he  said,  almost  reverently.  He  touched 
Marvin's  proffered  hand  and  hobbled  out. 


138         3n  tfte  S)6aDoto  of  &ot). 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"Herd  'em  say  at  Benvaniie  yon'd  been  held  up  fer 
immerality  ?"  broke  in  the  driver  with  innocent,  but 
brutal  frankness,  when  the  lumbering  stage  got  under 
way. 

^^Yes,"  answered  Marvin,  unflinchingly,  his  eyes 
on  the  green  world  that  revolved  about  them  in  great 
swelling  billows. 

"So  you'r  kinder  out  on  bail — ^nobody  but  yerself 
knows  if  yer  guilty  cr  not  ?  But  most  everybody  says 
yer  air — it's  a  kind  of  way  people  has.  They  seem 
glad  when  a  feller  gives  'em  a  chanct  to  believe  'em 
guilty  of  something.  An'  likely  if  you  come  clear 
they'll  say  you  didn't  git  jestice." 

He  paused  for  a  reply,  but  Marvin  vouchsafing  no 
response,  he  continued:  "Folks  air  awful  queer. 
Wlien  you  first  come,  Grogan  was  always  sayin', 
'Boggs,  you  must  come  roun'  an'  hear  our  new 
preacher — he's  a  regular  top-notcher' ;  an'  everybody 
was  sayin'  fine  things.  Got  my  curiosity  so  roused 
up  I'z  'most  a-mind  to  drop  in  an'  sample  the  salva- 
tion you'z  dishin'  out.  Then  I  thought  if  it  pleased 
Grogan  it  shore  couldn't  be  the  genuine  article.   Gro- 


In  tbt  S)f)aDoto  ot  ©oD*        139 

gan  ain't  got  no  more  conscience  than  a  prairie  rattler. 
He  says  to  me  this  mornin'  when  I  went  after  the 
mail,  ^Be  careful,  Boggs,  er  the  Parson'll  'tamernate 
yer  morals,'  an'  I  says,  ^Hardly,  after  'sociatin'  with 
you  so  long.' 

^Tarson,  you  made  one  mistake.  You  ought  to  'a' 
'zibited  them  pichers.  The  good  brothers  would  'a' 
fell  over  therselves  fer  a  peep.  There  come  a  show 
to  Eetta  onct  durin'  the  Fair,  where  they  danced 
the  couchie-couchie.  Well,  bless  my  eyes,  w^ien  the 
talk  go  roun'  what  was  goin'  on,  ever'  shoutin'  Meth- 
odists, can't-fall  Baptist,  water-salvation  Campbellite, 
an'  what-not  had  to  go  an'  see  it.  They  all  come  out 
condemning  the  ongodly  sight,  an'  if  you  ast  'em  why 
they  went,  they'd  say  they  didn't  want  to  condemn  a 
thing  'thout  seein'  it.  01'  Hanks,  w^ho  runs  the 
Cattle  King,  said  he  guessed  they'd  all  go  to  hell  an' 
sample  it  to  see  if  the  Parson's  reports  air  true,  an' 
git  'quainted  with  the  devil  to  see  if  he's  black  as 
he's  painted.  Anyway,  yer  show  wouldn't  'a'  been 
no  worse  'n  the  shindig  they  had  at  Benvanue  las' 
year  fer  the  heathen.  You  paid  fifty  cents  to  git  in, 
includin'  a  snack  you  could  git  down  at  the  grocery 
store  fer  fifteen  cents — the  extra  thirty-five  was  fer 
the  heathen.  Well,  when  they'd  aggervated  yer  ap- 
pertite  with  sanwishes  an'  pickles,  you  could  git  an 
extra  glass  of  pink  lemonade  fer  a  dime.  After 
we'd  et  all  the  doin's  we  w^ere  goin'  to,  they  put  up 


140         3n  tbt  ©fiaHoto  of  (SoD^ 

one  of  them  fancy  weddin'lookin'  cakes,  covered  with 
white  sugar  an'  red  gum  drops,  to  be  voted  to  the 
handsomest  girl  at  ten  cents  a  vote.  Well,  they  got 
up  an  awful  excitement.  Every  feller  wanted  his 
girl  to  git  the  cake.  The  cowboys  from  one  ranch 
got  to  buckin'  the  cowboys  from  ernother,  an'  Grogan 
an'  ol'  man  Harkness  aggin'  'em  on.  Well,  some  of 
them  fools  spent  their  salaries  months  ahead.  Widow 
Smith's  two  boys  from  the  river  got  to  votin'  on  Bill's 
sweetheart,  who  he  was  engaged  to,  an'  they  kept  bor- 
rowin'  right  an'  left  till  by  the  time  the  thing  was 
over,  they  owed  mor'n  they's  worth,  an'  didn't  git 
the  cake  neither.  Miz  Smith  come  over  the  nex' 
day  with  blood  in  her  eye  an'  rounded  up  the  Parson. 
Said  it  was  the  first  time  her  boys  ever  gambled  in 
their  lives,  an'  it  was  a  shame  fer  'em  to  learn  it  in  a 
meetin'  house ;  'specially  as  Ida  Grogan  got  the  cake, 
who  could  afford  to  have  all  the  cake  she  wanted 
'thout  robbin'  the  community  of  their  savin's.  Yes, 
you  made  a  mistake.  Parson — you  ought  to  'a'  showed 
them  pichers.  I'd  'a'  give  a  roun'  dollar  myself  to 
'a'  seen  'em.  Kothin'  I  dote  on  like  the  female  ^gger. 
God  done  his  levelist  I'm  thinkin'  when  he  made  it — 
if  he  did  build  it  out  of  a  rib.  My  information  of  the 
Bible  is,  she's  the  last  thing  he  made,  an'  I  can 
believe  it,  fer  he  shore  had  his  han'  in.  An'  if  I'm 
not  misinformed,  he  didn't  make  her  any  clothes.  I 
guess  if  he'd  'a'  lived  in  this  age  of  the  world  they'd 


In  tbt  ®f)aOcto  of  <eoD*        ui 

had  'im  up  fer  immerality.  Yes,  they  do  go  the  Lord 
Almighty  one  better,  fer  all  the  wonderful  to-do  they 
make  'bout  him.  Ever  since  Adam  an'  Eve,  folks 
been  actin'  as  if  Grod  didn't  know  his  bizness.  They 
begin  scramblin'  fer  fig  leaves  as  soon  as  they  seen 
therselves,  an'  their  offsprings  has  kept  up  the  scram- 
ble till  you'd  think  God  jest  made  'em  skellingtons  to 
hang  clothes  on.  That's  my  idee,"  he  said,  question- 
ingly,  as  if  to  draw  out  his  companion. 

"I  see,"  said  Marvin,  encouragingly ;  "that  you  are 
in  the  habit  of  having  ideas  of  your  o^vn." 

"Well,  yes,  you  might  put  it  that  way;  though  I 
ain't  makin'  no  pretentions  to  force  'em  on  nobody 
else.  I  take  it  the  Lord  gives  us  a  headpiece  fer  more 
purposes  than  to  stick  a  hat  on,  though  you  might  not 
think  so  when  you  see  how  the  wimin  have  taken  to 
riggin'  it  out.  An'  you  can't  tell  what's  in  a  head  by 
what's  on  it.  'Most  any  day  over  at  Retta  you  can 
see  a  fifty  dollar  hat  carryin'  roun'  a  fifteen  cent  head 
that's  got  jest  'nough  brains  in  it  to  make  it  giggle. 
But  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  agin  it.  This  is  a  free 
country.  I  has  my  idees  an'  lets  folks  have  theirs. 
Reckin,  though,  maybe,  I  do  think  more'n  some. 
Ridin'  on  the  prairie  by  myself,  winter  an'  summer, 
day  an'  night,  with  nothin'  to  do  but  think,  I  cover 
a  lot  of  ground  in  the  course  of  a  year.  Sometime  I 
think  a  feller  can  think  too  much.  Some  things  you 
jest  better  let  alone  an'  let  the  other  feller  do  the 


i42i         3n  tbt  ^i)aDob)  of  &ot. 

thinkin'  'bout.  I  git  to  chasin'  an'  idee,  an'  I  think 
an'  think,  till  my  brain  fairly  burns  an'  I  git  so 
mixed  up  I  almost  question  if  I'm  me  er  not  me.  One 
day  I  got  to  tryin'  to  solve  the  problem,  who  made 
God,  an'  I  do  believe  if  I  hadn't  'a'  let  up  when  I 
did,  I'd  be  a  jibberin'  idit  in  a  lunatick  'sylum." 

A  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in  sight  of  the 
spires  of  Retta. 

"Well,  yere's  fer  luck,  an'  I  hope  you'll  come  out 
O.K.,"  he  said,  grasping  Marvin's  hand  in  a  vise-like 
grip  and  flinging  it  from  him.    "Good-bye." 

Marvin  clambered  down,  and  Boggs  lumbered  off 
against  a  red  sunset,  slashing  the  horses  and  bellowing : 

"Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie 
In  a  little  grave  jest  six  by  three, 
Where  the  cayotes  will  howl  over  me." 


In  tfie  ^ftalioto  of  (So&»         143 


PAET  FOUR. 
CHAPTER   T. 

Marvin  stood  motionless  on  the  bustling  square, 
watching  the  activities  that  flowed  and  ebbed  about 
him.  Two  motives  had  drawn  him  to  Harris.  It 
was  to  be  the  meeting  place  of  the  next  annual  con- 
ference, and,  in  the  metropolis,  he  hoped  it  might  be 
possible  to  find  work.  But  as  he  now  caught  glimpses 
of  the  green  lanes  and  blue  sky  at  the  ends  of  the 
streets,  and  watched  the  sun-tanned  farmers  come 
and  go,  there  came  to  him  a  longing  to  bury  himself 
in  the  country  with  his  paints  and  brush.  It  was 
while  debating  the  matter  that  scraps  of  a  conversa- 
tion that  reached  him,  turned  the  scale. 

"Bond,  do  you  know  of  a  boy  that  would  like  to 
help  with  the  chores  for  his  keep  ?"  There  was  a  soft, 
musical  cadence  in  the  voice  that  fell  pleasantly  on 
the  ear.  Marvin  turned  toward  the  speaker.  He  was 
a  man  of  fifty,  broad  of  girth,  of  compact  symmetrical 
mold.  His  bearded  face  reminded  him  of  pictures 
he  had  seen  of  Moses.    His  small  blue  eyes  twinkled 


144         3n  tfte  SiftaDoto  of  (Sou* 

with  good  humor,  and  there  was  an  expression  about 
his  mouth  that  broadened  into  a  smile  at  the  slightest 
provocation.  Marvin  was  pleased  with  his  striking 
physique. 

"You'll  not  likely  find  a  boy  on  them  terms, 
Curry,"  returned  the  other  in  a  nasal  twang.  "Cotton 
choppin'  will  soon  be  yere  an'  then  everything  that 
can  hor  a  hoe  handle  will  be  wantin'  his  dollar  a  day. 
Wish  I  could  git  a  kid  fer  his  keep." 

They  moved  down  the  street.  Marvin  kept  his  eye 
on  the  larger  man  and  followed.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  this  might  be  the  opportunity  that  he  was  looking 
for.  When  Curry  at  length  turned  from  the  crowd, 
Marvin  approached  and  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"I'd  like  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  as  the  other 
turned  in  surprise. 

"Why,  shore,"  said  the  stranger,  grasping  Marvin's 
hand.    "What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

Marvin  made  known  his  desire  to  secure  light  work 
of  some  kind  in  the  country  and  referred  to  the  con- 
versation he  had  overheard. 

"Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  other;  it's  like 
this:  Wife's  porely  an'  I  have  to  hump  myself  to 
keep  things  goin'.  I  jest  want  someone  to  help  with 
the  chores,  mornin'  an'  night.  Cotton  choppin'  I'd 
pay  extra  fer — what  you  been  doin'  ?" 

Marvin  hesitated,  then  answered:  "School  teach- 
ing." 


Hn  tbt  ©fiaDoto  of  «>oB*         145 

The  other  glanced  him  over  critically. 

"Well,  Perfesser,"  he  said,  after  an  instant,  "you'r 
welcome  to  a  try.  Ain't  nobody  but  me  an'  wife,  an' 
I'll  be  glad  of  yer  company.  When  could  you  come 
out,  if  you  come  ?" 

"I'd  like  to  go  right  out  with  you." 

"Well,  I  like  the  way  you  have  of  makin'  up  yer 
min'.  I  never  have  no  patience  with  these  hang-fire 
people.  They  git  me  so  mixed  up  with  their  hemmin' 
an'  hawin'  an'  perhaps  an'  I'll  think  'bout  it,  till  I 
don't  know  my  own  min.'  Bond's  been  'scortin'  me 
roun'  the  streets  of  Harris  all  mornin'  like  a  love  sick 
kid  that  wants  to  pop  the  question  an'  can't,  tryin' 
to  decide  if  he'll  swap  his  filly  fer  my  ol'  mule.  He 
ain't  made  up  his  min'  yet  an'  he's  got  me  so  be- 
fuddled I  don't  know  if  I  want  to  er  not." 

Curry  bubbled  over  with  exuberance  of  spirits.  He 
was  one  of  those  health  animals  that  make  the  most  of 
life,  taking  things  as  they  come,  philosophically, 
cheerfully,  letting  the  future  take  care  of  itself. 

"I  tell  you,  Perfesser,"  he  began  tentatively,  as 
they  rolled  along  the  country  lanes ;  "if  you'r  goin'  to 
stay  out  to  my  place,  Pll  have  to  ast  a  favor  of  you. 
You  know  my  wife's  delicate  an'  she  can't  stan'  fer 
me  to  smoke,  an'  she  thinks  it's  bad  fer  my  heart. 
Well,  I  humor  her.  So  when  she's  roun'  I  talk  awful 
down  on  terbacker  an'  whisky.  It  pleases  her  an' 
don't  do  me  no  harm.     I  hope  you  use  'em,  fer  it'll 


146         3n  tbt  ^i)aDoto  of  <S^oO« 

make  it  a  lot  easier  fer  me.  You  see  when  I  want 
a  nip  er  take  a  notion  fer  a  smoke,  IVe  got  to  come 
over  town,  go  see  a  neighbor  er  take  to  the  woods. 
Then  I  take  a  pinch  of  this  an'  she  ain't  none  the 
wiser."  He  held  up  a  kernel  of  assafoetida.  "I  tell 
her  the  doctor  prescribed  it  fer  my  heart.  AVcll,  she 
Stan's  it  all  right,  though  I'm  shore  it  must  be  worser 
then  terbacker."  He  produced  some  cheap  cheroots 
and  stopped  the  horses  while  they  lighted  them. 

*'Yes,"  he  went  on,  puffing  contentedly;  "since 
wife's  been  porcly  Tve  humored  her  'bout  everything. 
'Tain't  good  fer  ailin'  people  to  be  crossed.  She'll 
be  askin'  you  questions  when  I'm  not  roun'  an'  I 
thought  I'd  better  give  you  a  hint.  You  jest  tell  her 
I'm  out  an'  out  fer  temperance,  an'  agree  to  every- 
thing she  says.  You  know  sick  people  ain't  hardly 
responsible;  an'  I've  noticed  different  diseases  affect 
people  in  different  ways.  Xow,  wife's  got  liver  com- 
plaint an'  stomach  trouble  an'  it  seems  to  make  her 
feel  blue  an'  talk  blue.  01'  man  Smith,  over  on  the 
creek,  has  consumption,  but  you  couldn't  never  make 
him  believe  it.  He'z  lively  as  a  cricket  an'  says  he's 
goin'  to  live  till  he'z  a  hundred.  Everybody  can  see 
he'z  already  stand  in'  in  the  grave.  Billings,  he'z  one 
of  my  neighbors,  has  the  rehumatiz.  That's  an  awful 
tetchy  ailment.  You  don't  dare  to  cross  'im  even  in 
look  er  he'll  rail  oiit  on  you  worse'n  tarnation.  You 
never  seen  sech  a  fiery  temper.    But  it  ain't  Billings, 


3n  t&e  S)!)aOoto  of  &ot.         U7 

it's  jest  his  rheumatiz.  Then  there's  Sam  Doty,  he'z 
got  heart  troiible  an'  looks  solemcholy  as  a  funeral. 
I  feel  like  I'd  made  a  visit  to  the  graveyard  every  time 
I  go  over  to  see  him.  An'  it's  jest  that  way  with  most 
people.  It's  the  ailments  that  make  them  what  they 
air,  an'  they  can't  help  it.  Sometime  I  think  lyin' 
an'  stealin'  an'  general  oneryness  is  jest  a  kind  of 
disease,  an'  a  great  many  people  ought  to  be  taken 
to  the  doctor  'stead  of  jail."  He  paused  a  moment 
as  if  expecting  Marvin  to  controvert  his  radical  views, 
then  went  on  cheerfully : 

"I  reckin  there  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with  me, 
onless  it's  jest  general  cussedness.  Wife  says  I'm 
too  full  of  jokes  an'  frivolity  fer  a  religus  man  an' 
a  deacon.  But  I  believe  that  Schriptur  which  says 
religin  was  never  designed  to  make  our  pleasures  less. 
I  guess  the  Lord  knowed  what  he  was  'bout  when  he 
made  man  an'  didn't  put  nothin'  in  him  that  oughtn't 
be  there.  Anyway,  I'm  goin'  to  enjoy  myself  while 
I  can,  fer,  as  the  sayin'  goes,  when  I  die  I'll  be  a  long 
time  dead.  But,  of  course,  this  is  my  private  opinion. 
When  I'm  with  my  wife  what  she  says  goes.  I 
thought  I'd  explain  so  you'd  understan'  the  contra- 
dictory way  I  have  of  expressin'  myself.  A  married 
man  is  jest  half  a  man,  you  know,  an'  it's  my  idee 
the  better  half's  entitled  to  do  the  thinkin'  an'  have 
her  way.  But  it  ain't  nothin'  but  fair  the  other  half 
should  have   a  private  opinion   in  a  private  way. 


148         3n  tfte  ©ftasoto  of  (SoD^ 

You'll  soon  learn  bow  to  take  my  wife,  an'  you'll  like 
her. 

"But  yere's  where  we  stop,"  he  broke  off,  as  he 
drew  up  the  horses  before  a  large  board  gate,  some 
distance  from  a  queer  little  house,  in  the  door  of 
which  stood  a  tall,  slatternly  woman. 

"Youder's  Elvira,  now,"  he  said,  taking  a  pinch 
of  assafoetida.  He  handed  Marvin  the  reins  and 
sprang  down  to  open  the  gate.  "You  drive  in,"  he 
said,  "I'll  run  on  an'  tell  wife  who  you  air,  er  she 
might  have  a  nervous  spell.  Elvira  don't  like  onex- 
pected  visitors.  But  don't  you  fear,"  he  added  re- 
assuringly, slamming  to  the  gate  and  hurrying  on 
ahead. 

Mrs.  Curry  was  one  of  a  too  common  type  of  house- 
wife that  can  be  found  in  almost  any  farm  community 
— prematurely  old  from  overwork,  m.ental  inactivity 
and  patent  medicine.  Her  face  was  like  a  yellow 
paste ;  there  was  a  woebegone,  vacant  look  in  her  eyes, 
and  in  her  veins  ran  sluggishly  all  the  drugs  of  the 
pharmacopoea. 

"I  don't  see  what  ever  possessed  you  to  come  out 
yere  to  do  chores,  bein'  a  school  teacher,  as  you  say," 
she  whined,  in  a  thin,  quavering  voice. 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  jest  wants  to  rough  it  a  little,"  said 
Curry,  considerately. 

"I'm  sure  I'll  like  it  very  much,  if  I  can  please 
you  with  my  work,"  Marvin  added,  cheerfully. 


3n  tfje  ^fiaDoto  of  ©oO*         i49 

Mrs.  Curry  gave  vent  to  a  sound  suggesting  a  com- 
bination of  a  hiss  and  clack. 

^'Well,  I  guess  if  you  want  to,  you  can.  Any 
nigger  can  feed  stock  an'  carry  slop  to  the  hogs " 

"Oh,  I  like  that,"  said  Marvin;  "but  Fm  afraid 
I'll  hardly  earn  my  board  if  that's  all  you  can  find 
for  me  to  do." 

"Well,  yer  keep'll  be  rough  enough.  An'  I  reckin 
Lem'll  see  that  ye  earn  it." 

"Well,  ol'  woman,  time  I  was  gittin'  supper — I'm 
hungry  as  a  wolf,"  broke  in  Curry.  "Jest  make  yer- 
self  at  home,  Perf esser. 

He  entered  the  kitchen,  his  wife  following,  drag- 
ging herself  wearily. 

An  hour  later  they  sat  down  to  a  meal  of  fried 
bacon,  corn  bread,  sour  milk  and  black  coffee. 

"It's  pretty  rough  fare,"  said  Curry,  "but  eggs  an' 
butter  will  soon  be  cheai:>er  an'  you  can  have  all  you 
care  fer — you  like  eggs  ^  They  bring  a  fancy  price 
an'  we're  sellin'  'em  all  now.  Money's  pretty  scarce 
an'  Elvira  has  to  have  her  physic." 

"The  corn  bread  and  milk  just  suit  me,"  returned 
Marvin. 

"An'  the  vegetables  will  soon  be  in — you  like 
vegetables  ?  They  fetch  a  good  price  over  at  Harris, 
but  we  always  raise  plenty  fer  our  own  use.  Though 
Elvira  don't  care  fer  'em.  She  thinks  them  store 
things  air  best  fer  her  health — wheatlum,  prunelet, 


150         3n  tfte  S)6aDoto  of  ©oO* 

forcem,  an'  the  like — an'  I  guess  she's  right,"  he 
hastened  to  add.  "Persons  in  delicate  health  need 
something  of  the  kind,"  he  said,  gulping  down  cup 
after  cup  of  black  coffee. 

"Do  you  smoke,  chew  er  drink?"  asked  Mrs. 
Curry,  gazing  at  Marvin  with  threatening  vacuity. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  smoke,"  returned  Marvin, 
deprecatingly.  "I  know  it's  a  bad  habit,  but  I  formed 
it  when  I  didn't  know  any  better." 

"Xo  terbacker  fer  me,"  said  Curry,  positively. 
"It's  bad  fer  the  heart,  an'  worse  fer  the  pocket,  an' 
Elvira  can't  stan'  my  breath.  I  love  it,  but  I  gave  it 
up." 

"Well,  if  I  was  you,  I'd  quit,  young  man.  I'd  be 
ashame  to  say  I  couldn't,  when  you  can  if  you  want 
to.  That's  what  I  tol'  Lem,  an'  when  he  made  up  his 
min'  he  quit.  If  you'll  take  assafoetida  it  will  help 
you.  Anyway,  I  won't  have  you  smokin'  'bout  the 
house.  I  can't  stan'  it  an'  I  won't,"  she  insisted 
shrilly. 

"Quit,  young  man,  quit  short  off,"  Curry  advised 
earnestly ;  "I'll  always  be  thankful  to  Elvira  fer  show- 
in'  me  the  errer  of  my  way.  Have  some  more  of  the 
buttermilk.  I  see  you  like  it.  I  can't  drink  it. 
Makes  me  go  dead  to  sleep  on  my  feet.  Wife  can't 
sleep  nights  an'  I  tell  her  to  try  buttermilk,  but  she 
can't  drink  it  neither.     She  takes  Celery  Sprouts 


3n  tht  ©ftaDoto  of  ©oD*         151 

Cordial.  That's  a  fine  medicine.  Elvira's  taken  onto 
a  hundred  bottles,  an'  I  don't  doubt  but  she'd  be  in 
her  grave  if  she  hadn't." 

"Well,  I  ain't  givin'  the  Cordial  all  the  credit.  L 
think  Sartin's  Sa'sparilla,  Filkin's  Female  Favorite 
an'  Brown's  Blood  Balm  air  doin'  me  jest  as  much 
good.  I  take  'em  turn  about,  after  meals  an'  before, 
an'  Plain  People's  Pills  at  night.  They  seem  to 
keep  me  out  of  bed,  but  I  don't  git  my  strength  back, 
an'  I  don't  feel  like  I  use'  to.  I  heard  over  at  Miz 
Smith's  to-day  that  there  was  a  new  remedy  fer  my 
complaints  bein'  sold  over  to  Harris.  Soon  as  I  save 
up  egg  money  enough,  I  want  to  try  it,  an' " 

''Shore,  Elvira,  you'll  have  it,  if  I  'ave  to  git  it 
on  tick.  You  make  a  note  of  it  an'  remin'  me  nex' 
time  I  go  over." 

Curry  rose  from  the  table,  "^ow,  we'll  feed  an' 
I'll  show  you  'bout  the  place,  Perfesser.  Elvira,  you 
let  the  dishes  alone,  I'll  wash  'em  up  when  I  git  back. 
Go  lay  down." 

They  walked  about  the  little  farm  and  at  length 
entered  a  wood.  Curry  produced  the  remaining 
cheroots  and  they  sat  down  on  a  log  to  smoke.  The 
sun  had  gone  down,  and  a  cool  breeze  swept  over  the 
darkening  fields.  Curry  threw  off  his  hat  and  lifting 
his  broad,  good-humored  face  to  the  dimming  sky, 
remarked  joyously ; 


152        3n  the  %!)a&ota3  of  <$oB. 

"Now,  this  is  fine,  Perfesser."  Then  after  a  little, 
"An'  I'm  awful  glad  you  smoke.  I  see  you  ketch  on. 
Oh,  we'll  git  'long  swimmin'." 

When  they  rose  to  go,  he  poked  his  companion  in 
the  ribs.    There  was  a  pungent  odor  on  the  air. 

"Have  a  nibble,"  he  said. 


3n  ttt  ^{)aDota)  of  ($oti«         153 


CHAPTER   IL 

Marvin's  quarters  was  a  half  story  attic.  Only  in 
a  space  of  a  few  feet  in  the  centre  of  the  room  could 
one  stand  erect,  the  roof  sloping  down  on  either  side 
almost  to  the  floor. 

"Look  out  fer  yer  head  an'  keep  in  the  middle  of 
the  road/'  sang  out  his  guide.  Curry  turned  down 
the  quilts,  told  Marvin  to  make  himself  at  home,  and 
assuring  him  that  he  would  "yell  up"  at  the  proper 
time  in  the  morning,  began  the  descent. 

When  he  was  gone,  Marvin  stood  for  some  minutes 
looking  about  the  room.  On  either  side  of  the  attic 
were  small  square  windows  with  sliding  shutters.  In 
one  gable  a  door  opened  onto  a  small  porch.  He 
stepped  out  and  sat  do^^Ti  on  a  chair  he  found  there. 
It  was  evidently  an  unfrequented  spot,  for  he  crushed 
beneath  his  feet  dry  leaves  that  had  likely  fallen  the 
winter  before.  The  branches  of  the  trees  that  grew 
near  overshadowed  the  porch,  giving  one  the  feeling 
of  being  perched  among  the  treetops.  As  he  sat 
peering  out  into  the  dark,  a  grey  luminousness  crept 
up  the  sky,  bringing  into  visibility  the  ragged  tracery 
of  woods  across  the  black  fields.    Then  the  yellow  rim 


1S4        In  m  ^iiaDoVu  of  <$oo. 

of  the  moon,  etched  with  fantastic  lace,  grew  in  di- 
mensions till  its  great  white  disc  floated  free  in  the 
steel-grey  depths.  Upon  the  air  sounded  a  faint 
musical  note,  and  to  this  Marvin  found  himself 
straining  his  ear  and  conjecturing  its  origin.  It 
brought  to  his  mind  the  memory  of  a  great  city,  and 
with  that  memory  came  others — a  face  rose  before 
him  against  the  night,  a  face  that  had  haunted  him, 
and  had  a  place  in  his  dreams,  since  his  inglorious 
departure  from  the  metropolis.  He  sighed,  but  not 
in  bitterness  of  soul.  He  was  conscious  even  of  a 
negative  calm  and  content  to-night.  At  last  he  had 
found  a  quiet  harbor  where  he  could  rest  awhile  and 
take  his  bearing.  Already  he  was  planning  the  work 
he  had  set  for  himself.  He  rose  and  entered  the 
room,  undressed  and  stretched  himself  between  cool, 
fragrant  sheets. 

When  he  woke  the  next  morning,  the  sun  had  not 
risen,  but  as  he  glanced  out  the  window  he  saw  Curry 
already  busy  at  work  at  the  barn.  He  dressed  and 
hurried  out  to  join  him. 

"If  you  want  to  toughen  yer  muscles,  pitch  in,'' 
said  Curry,  greeting  him.  He  was  shoveling  manure 
from  the  stalls  to  a  wagon.  "This  ain't  as  elegant  as 
teachin'  school,  but  it's  pretty  much  in  the  same  line. 
Edjucation  develops  the  min',  fertilizer  grows  corn 
an'  cotton.    One  sprouts  the  idee,  the  other  the  seed. 


In  tbt  §)6alioto  of  (SoD*        155 

When  you  think  about  it,  it's  wonderful  what  a  little 
edjucation  an'  cow-dung  will  do.  A  few  years  ago 
the  hillside  where  I'm  hawling  this  wouldn't  sprout 
peas — too  pore  fer  anything.  Well,  I've  been  edju- 
catin'  it  with  plenty  manure  fer  couple  years,  an'  now 
it  beats  the  valley  field.  I  call  it  my  Jim  Biggs  patch. 
Jim's  the  son  of  ol'  man  Biggs  that  lives  on  Kechi. 
The  ol'  man  got  turrible  discouraged  'bout  Jim.  He 
jest  nacherly  wouldn't  take  to  farmin',  but  he  was 
great  on  speechifyin'  an'  politics.  Winters  he  kept 
the  whole  neighborhood  stirred  up  with  his  debates 
at  the  school-house.  Well,  he  got  after  his  pa  to  let 
him  git  an  edjucation.  He  went  over  to  the  Harris 
High  School,  then  to  college,  then  he  studied  law. 
!N'ow  he's  a  partner  of  Senator  Herbert,  an'  prose- 
cutin'  attorney.  That^s  what  a  little  edjucatin'  done 
fer  Jim — ^jest  what  the  manure  done  fer  the  hillside. 
Jim  was  over  lectioneerin'  me  one  day  an'  I  took 
him  over  to  see  my  fine  crop  of  cotton.  Well,  when  I 
told  him  I  called  it  my  Jim  Biggs  patch,  an'  why, 
he  seemed  kinder  pleased,  an'  says:  ^Curry,  I  guess 
edjucation  done  the  work;  hadn't  been  fer  that  I'd 
still  be  humpin'  myself  behind  the  plow.'  But  edju- 
cation has  got  to  have  something  to  work  on,  he  says, 
an'  if  I'd  dig  down  in  the  hillside  I'd  find  a  sub- 
stratum of  clay  that  held  the  fertilizer,  er  it  would 
all  disappear  to  nowhere.  'Curry,  I've  got  the  sub- 
stratum,' he  says,  givin'  me  a  wink.     'Vote  fer  me 


156         3n  tfie  ©ftaDoto  of  ©oo* 

an'  I'll  show  you  what  kind  of  crop  111  grow.'  Well, 
I  voted  far  'im." 

Some  hens  with  large  broods  of  chickens  had  been 
following  the  movements  of  the  shovels,  looking  for 
turned  up  grain  and  insects.  As  Curry  wheeled 
toward  the  wagon,  his  big  foot  trod  on  a  fluffy  white 
chick.  There  was  a  muffled  shriek  that  threw  the 
brood  into  a  panic,  and  the  white  ball  turned  on  its 
back,  its  little  red  feet  jerking  convulsively.  It 
gasped  a  time  or  two,  and  was  dead.  As  Curry 
glanced  at  what  he  had  done  a  look  of  pain  came 
onto  his  face. 

"Pore  little,  silly  thing,''  he  said,  picking  it  up 
and  stroking  it  awkwardly. 

He  stepped  to  one  side  and  dug  out  a  spadeful  of 
dirt,  dropped  it  in  and  covered  it. 

"Daren't  leave  it  where  an  ol'  sow'll  find  it.  If 
they  once  git  the  taste  of  young  chickens,  there's  no 
cure  but  to  kill  'em.  It's  worse'n  the  terbacker  habit 
fer  stickin'.  I  guess  that  chick  was  predestined  never 
to  sizzle  in  a  fry  in'  pan,"  he  went  on  philosophizing 
"An'  I'z  jest  helpin'  'long  the  plans  of  Providence  in 
steppin'  on  it — not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  groun' 
'thout  His  knowledge,  an'  they  wouldn't  fall  'thout 
He  willed  it.  Yes,  I  believe  God's  running  things, 
an'  to  say  things  is  runnin'  wrong  is  to  reflect  on  his 
'bility  an'  jedgement.  If  He  saves  you,  you'r  saved, 
an'  if  He  damns  you,  you'r  damned,  an'  there's  an' 


3it  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  ©oo*        isr 

end  to  it.  I  believe  I'm  one  of  the  saved,  an'  I'll 
never  know  no  different  till  I  wake  np  in  the  sweet- 
bye-and-bje.  An'  if  1  fetch  up  at  the  'tother  place, 
why,  there  ain't  no  use  worryin'  'bout  it  yere.  Yes, 
God  made  Curry,  an'  he  meant  him  to  work  this  little 
farm,  have  a  sick  wife,  smoke  terbacker,  take  his 
dram,  when  he  can  git  it,  an'  do  a  lot  of  devilish 
things,  an'  I  ain't  blamin'  Him  fer  it.  I'm  satisfied 
if  He  is,  but  He  mustn't  expect  me  to  be  anybody  but 
Curry.  Yes,  it  was  predestinated  before  the  founda- 
tion of  the  world  that  I'd  be  shovelin'  manure  an' 
talkin'  to  you  this  very  momin',  an'  step  on  that 
silly  chick — God  works  in  a  mysterious  way  His  won- 
ders to  perform,  as  the  good  book  says. 

"But  there's  wife  callin',  an'  I  guess  it's  predes- 
tined we  have  some  breakfast,"  he  said,  sw^inging  his 
great  body  toward  the  house,  his  broad  face  wreathed 
with  lines  of  contentment,  his  eyes  reflecting  back  the 
sparkle  of  the  sky. 

That  evening  as  Marvin  and  Curry  sat  on  the  log 
in  the  concealment  of  the  w^oods,  smoking  their  pipes, 
there  floated  on  the  night  the  sound  of  distant  music. 
Marvin  questioned  his  companion  as  to  its  origin. 

"That  comes  from  Laramore's  house.  He  owns 
these  woods.  He's  from  up  T^orth  somewhere — 'New 
York,  they  say.  He's  wonderful  rich,  an'  since  he 
bought  the  ranch,  he  spends  a  few  months  down  yere 
every  year.    That's  his  girl  playin'  the  piano.    They 


158         Sn  tfte  S){)aDoU)  of  ©oti* 

say  she's  a  holy  terror — ^goes  everywhere  by  herself, 
hunts  with  a  gun,  climbs  trees,  an'  goes  in  swimmin' 
— but  I  ain't  condemnin'  her  fer  that.  Though  you 
can't  believe  all  you  hear  'bout  people  when  they're 
doin'  their  best  to  please  everybody,  an'  I  guess  you 
can't  believe  nothin'  you  hear  'bout  people  that  ain't 
tryin'  to  please  nobody.  It's  my  idee  a  feller  has  a 
right  to  live  to  please  hisself,  an'  Laramore  is  as  good 
as  any  of  us,  I  reckin.  Never  seen  him  but  onct,  but 
he'z  always  treated  me  white.  Two  of  my  hogs  got 
through  his  fence,  an'  when  I  went  over  fer  them  I 
shore  thought  I'd  get  a  blowin'  up,  an'  like  as  not 
find  my  hogs  killed,  that's  generally  the  way  they  do 
'bout  yere.  Well,  he  said  he  was  sorry  I  had  to  lose 
the  mornin',  but  he  didn't  know  whose  they  were  an' 
couldn't  sen'  'em  home.  He'd  penned  'em  up,  an' 
when  I  went  out  to  git  'em  they's  layin'  down  stupid 
with  the  feed  he'd  give  'em,  an  whole  ears  of  corn 
under  their  noses  they  hadn't  touched.  I'z  shore 
proud  of  them  hogs  fer  their  manners,  fer  they  hadn't 
had  a  mouthful  of  corn  fer  months.  He  had  one  of 
the  men  fetch  'em  home  in  a  waggin,  an'  I  rode  with 
him.  An'  that's  the  extent  of  my  'quaintance  with 
Laramore. 


an  tfte  SftaDoto  of  &oh.        159 


CHAPTEK   III. 

An  exuberant  June  day  danced  over  the  face  of  the 
green  world.  That  elusive,  pervasive  spirit  we  call 
life  was  at  its  flood.  A  mystical  vitality  stirred  and 
trembled  in  every  living  thing — everywhere  was 
movement,  activity. 

Marvin  sat  before  his  easel  at  the  edge  of  a  clear- 
ing, well  in  the  shadow  of  a  giant  liveoak;  about 
him  the  grass,  its  white  under  surface  quivering  in 
the  breeze,  rippled  a  young  sea.  The  trees  glistened 
in  the  vivid  green  of  fresh  maturity.  In  the  open, 
about  the  stumps,  a  sappy  growth  of  sprouts  had 
sprung  up  as  if  impatient  to  hide  the  unsightliness 
of  their  vanquished  ancestors.  From  the  yellow  sun- 
light to  the  black  shadows,  wavering  clouds  of  ephem- 
era drifted  joyously — making  the  most  of  their  life- 
span of  a  day.  Hidden  from  the  eye  at  the  roots 
of  the  grass  and  weeds,  armies  of  ants  and  insects 
played  their  liliputian  comedies  and  tragedies. 

Abutting  on  the  clearing  were  Curry's  patches — 
rustling,  snapping  rows  of  corn,  darker  green  ones  of 
cotton.  Back  and  forth  the  green  flood  moved  Curry, 
his  plow  ripping  a  cool  brown  wave  that  bathed  the 


160         3n  tfte  ®ftaDoto  of  ©oD^ 

feet  of  the  young  corn.  Midway  the  field  bent  the 
slender  figure  of  a  girl,  her  head  hid  beneath  the 
poke  of  her  bonnet.  High  in  the  crystalline  blue, 
white  clouds,  with  oily,  glistening  Qonvolutions,  moved 
languidly,  their  shadows  on  the  distant  pasture  lands, 
that  were  dappled  with  lazily  moving  cattle.  There 
was  a  drousily  throbbing  note  in  the  air ;  the  love-cry 
of  mating  and  building  birds;  the  passionate  bellow 
of  a  penned-up  bull,  maddened  at  the  stir  of  life  he 
could  not  understand,  could  not  quiet.  On  a  girdled 
tree  a  hawk  poised  with  wary  eye,  waiting  a  victim. 

Marvin  painted  on  obliviously,  save  when  his  eyes 
occasionally  roved  the  landscape.  During  the  weeks 
of  work  and  isolation  he  had  begun  to  learn  that  at 
the  heart  of  all  self-conscious  life  there  ever  lurks 
an  insistent  discontent — that  to  tliink  is  to  be  filled 
^vith  uneasiness ;  that  the  only  escape  from  self,  from 
life,  is  in  eager,  persistent  activity,  and  so  he  worked. 

Mid-morning,  when  the  sun  blazed  white  toward 
the  zenith,  at  a  point  just  behind  him  a  girl  came 
swinging  along  the  edge  of  the  woods,  her  eyes  sweep- 
ing the  view.  Seeing  the  artist  beneath  the  trees, 
she  stopped  abruptly.  Then  stepping  within  the  pro- 
tection of  the  trees,  she  crept  nearer,  craning  her 
head  for  a  better  view.  Her  espial  seemed  to  be 
satisfactory.  She  gave  a  deft  touch  to  the  yellow 
locks  that  strayed  from  her  wide-brimmed  hat;  re- 
arranged the  folds  of  lace  at  her  throat,  and,  giving 


In  tie  %|aDobi  of  <$oD.        lei 

her  whole  person  a  quick  glance  of  inspection,  as- 
sumed a  graceful  poise  and  tiptoed  into  the  open. 
Some  mystical  influence  seemed  to  move  the  worker 
under  the  trees.  He  stirred  in  his  seat  uneasily, 
threw  a  quick  glance  ahout  the  clearing,  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  The  new  comer,  whatever  had  been  her 
intentions,  was  suddenly  stricken  with  fear  and  fled 
precipitately  into  the  woods,  the  swish  of  her  skirts 
not  imlike  the  whirr  of  wdngs.  Marvin  took  a  turn 
about  the  easel,  glanced  up  into  the  foliage,  into 
the  sky,  followed  the  line  of  woods,  but  saw  nothing. 
The  disturbing  presence  had  vanished.  With  an  un- 
accountable sense  of  disappointment  he  returned  to 
his  painting.  But  presently  he  started  up  and  lis- 
tened intently,  a  look  of  surprise  on  his  face.  From 
the  depths  of  the  woods  there  rose  a  soft  musical 
note.  He  threw  down  his  brush  and  sprang  to  his 
feet.  It  was  a  human  voice — clear,  liquid,  com- 
pelling. He  recalled  that  he  was  in  Mr.  Laramore's 
pasture  and  thought  that  this  must  be  the  tom-boy 
girl  that  Curry  had  spoken  of.  He  was  glad  that  he 
knew  of  the  rancher's  pacific  attitude  toward  tres- 
passers, and  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
guided  by  the  song.  Soon  he  came  upon  a  sight  that 
held  him  rooted  to  the  spot.  From  a  branch  of  a  tree 
that  projected  over  tlie  stream  had  been  fastened  a 
swing.  Standing  in  this  the  singer  swept  back  and 
forth  rhythmically,  as  if  keeping  time  to  the  wild 


1G2         3n  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  aoD* 

burst  of  melody;  now  high  amid  the  treetops,  now 
far  over  the  water,  her  dress  a  white  flashing  re- 
flection on  the  surface  below. 

While  Marvin  stood  in  open-eyed  wonder  and  ad- 
miration, the  swing,  with  a  few  convulsive  jerks, 
came  to  a  rest,  and  the  occupant  sprang  to  the  ground. 
Turning  toward  him,  she  busied  herself  with  her  hair 
that  had  tumbled  about  her  shoulders.  There  was  a 
fine  color  on  her  cheeks  and  her  blue  eyes  glowed 
with  animation.  Marvin  gave  a  start  of  recognition. 
Where  had  he  seen  that  face  before  ?  or  was  his  sixth 
sense  playing  him  a  trick?  But  he  questioned  only 
for  a  second.  His  mind  flashed  back  to  a  New  York 
ferryboat,  a  dining-car,  and  he  knew  that  he  stood 
before  the  face  of  his  dreams.  She  would  not  re- 
member, but  somehow  he  must  let  her  know.  But 
how  ?  While  he  pondered  she  came  briskly  along  the 
path.  The  next  moment  they  stood  face  to  face, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Marvin  said,  confusedly; 
"I  hope  I  have  not  frightened  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid — just  surprised,''  she  said, 
a  frank  fearlessness  in  her  eyes. 

They  stood  a  moment  regarding  each  other  in 
silence. 

"May  I  pass  ?"  she  asked,  naively. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  stepping  aside. 
She  came  forward  slowlj,  almost  brushing  against 


3n  tfte  S)&aaoto  of  ©oD*         les 

him  as  she  passed.  The  nearness  of  her  person  filled 
him  with  a  glad  intoxication.  'But'  she  was  escaping 
him.  He  became  desperate,  strode  after  her,  was 
soon  at  her  side. 

'^You  don't  remember  me  V  he  blurted  recklessly. 

Without  slacking  her  pace,  she  glanced  backward, 
her  eyes  flashing  in  startled  amusement. 

"I  haven't  forgotten  you." 

"But  you  have  seen  me  before " 

She  stopped  haltingly.  There  was  the  slightest 
restraint  in  her  manner,  as  if  she  suspicioned  he 
might  refer  to  her  late  espial. 

"I — I — have  seen  you  before?"  she  questioned. 

"Years  ago  we  were  fellow  travellers — I  mean  we 
travelled  on  the  same  train.     I  saw  you — you " 

"IvTo,  I'm  sure  I  don't  remember — I  was  very 
young  years  ago." 

"Of  course  you  don't — you  were  crossing  the 
Pennsylvania  ferry  in  New  York  with  your  father 
— we  stood  close  together  against  the  railing — we 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes — you  smiled  and  I  have 
never  forgotten,"  Man^in  went  on  hurriedly.  "I 
saw  you  again  in  the  dining-car — you  dropped  your 
handkerchief — I  picked  it  up  and  hastened  after 
you,  but  you  entered  the  sleeper  before  I  overtook 
you.  I  was  a  passenger  in  the  day  coach — I  didn't 
see  you  again — I  still  have  the  handkerchief " 


164         3n  ti)e  ^ftaDoto  of  &oi. 

"What  a  good  memory  you  have — and  thank  you 
for  keeping  the  handkerchief. '  But  how  odd  ?" 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  return  it." 

"Oh,  thank  you." 

"I  mean  if  you'd  like  me  to  V 

"It's  very  kind  of  you." 

"You  are  Miss  Laramore,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes." 

"The  people  I  am  staying  with  spoke  of  you." 

"Not  very  complimentary,  I  fear  ?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Curry  likes  you " 

"You  are  stopping  there?" 

"For  a  few  months.  I'm — I'm  studying  art — I've 
been  doing  some  sketching " 

"Oh,  you  are  an  artist?    How  interesting." 

"I  was  painting  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  when  I 
heard  you  singing.  I'll  be  glad  to  show  you — if  you 
really  care?" 

They  walked  on  together,  Marvin  holding  the 
boughs  aside  as  she  passed,  the  folds  of  her  white 
dress  brushing  his  coatless  arm. 

During  his  absence  the  shadows  had  shifted  and 
his  easel  was  in  the  sunlight.  He  drew  it  beneath  the 
tree  and  offered  the  stool.  She  sat  down  and  looked 
at  his  painting  with  curious  interest. 

"You  are  an  artist,"  she  said  approvingly,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  fields.  "But  how  odd  to  find  you 
here?" 


3n  tf)e  g)6aOoto  of  ©oD^         i65 

^'And  you." 

"I  suppose  my  singing  did  sound  a  little  out  of 
place  V 

"I  thought  it  very  beautiful." 

"I  hope  to  become  an  artist — ^I'm  studying  for 
grand  opera.  But  you — you're  ever  so  far  ahead 
of  me." 

"Thank  you.  I'd  be  glad  to  show  you  some  of  my 
paintings." 

"I'd  like  very  much  to  see  them." 

An  hour  later  they  still  sat  in  the  grass  beneath  the 
tree,  talking  in  that  easy,  confidential  way  possible 
only  to  old  friends  or  people  who  have  much  in  com- 
mon.    She  rose  to  go. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Artist.'* 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Prima  Donna." 

Marvin  gathered  up  his  tubes  and  brushes,  threw 
the  easel  across  his  shoulder,  and  strode  through  the 
sunshine,  wliistling  a  tune  in  gleeful  abandon.  He 
was  not  even  conscious  of  the  blazing  sun,  did  not  see 
the  landscape  that  danced  under  his  eyes,  was  alive 
only  to  the  newly  awakened  passion  that  seemed  to 
lift  him  from  earth  up  into  heaven. 


16G         3n  tfie  ©fiaDotu  of  (SoD* 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"You  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  hummin'  bird 
alive,"  said  Curry  one  morning  at  breakfast,  as  he 
gulped  down  his  black  coifee.  "YouVe  been  stickin' 
to  yer  room  an'  picher  makin'  too  close — an'  you 
mope  roun'  like  you'd  lost  yer  last  frien'.  You  need 
a  change.  Git  ready  an'  ride  over  with  me  to  Harris 
to-day.  We'll  drive  over  in  the  cool  of  mornin'  an' 
come  back  after  night — an'  I'll  inquire  fer  them 
Crimson  Circulators,  Elvira,"  he  added,  to  forestall 
any  objections  his  wife  might  have  to  his  plans. 

Marvin  consented. 

Reaching  Harris,  he  drifted  leisurely  about  the 
streets  while  Curry  transacted  his  business.  Coming 
upon  an  imposing  church  in  his  wanderings,  he  ap- 
proached a  man  that  looked  to  be  a  native  and  made 
inquiries.  The  man  looked  him  over  a  moment. 
"You  don't  live  yere  ?"  he  said. 

When  Marvin  replied  in  the  negative,  he  con- 
tinued: "That's  Parson  Hill's  church — er  was  till 
he  left." 

"He  hasn't  quit  preaching?"  Marvin  asked,  con- 
scious of  a  strange  quickening  of  interest. 


3tt  tiie  ©fiaOato  of  (©oO*         ler 

"Ain't  you  heard  the  scandal?"  the  other  said, 
edging  closer.  "Why,  it's  common  talk  fer  the  last 
month.  Dyin'  down  now  as  them  things  will.  Yes, 
they  say,  Hill  got  to  lovin'  the  sisters  too  permiscu- 
ous,  an'  folks  went  to  talkin'.  Then  he  begin  to  act 
queer  in  his  head — ^kind  of  a  religus  insanity  dodge. 
The  Elder  sent  him  off  to  Colorado  fer  his  health — 
but  everybody  understands.  He'll  come  back  O.  K. 
an'  be  more  popular  with  the  sisters  than  ever.  That's 
the  way  with  the  highsteeples." 

Marvin  thanked  the  stranger  and  passed  on  down 
the  street.  The  spire  of  the  church  rose  before  him 
piercing  a  pale  green  sky,  silent  and  somber.  As  he 
stood  gazing  on  the  darkening  fagade,  a  flood  of  light 
from  the  low  sinking  sun  struck  the  windows — they 
shone  red  like  great  splotches  of  blood.  There  was 
something  sinister  about  the  great  bleak  structure 
with  the  glaring  red  eyes.  Marvin  took  it  as  an  un- 
happy omen.  For  he  remembered  that  within  its 
walls  would  take  place  his  trial.  He  was  oppressed 
with  a  presentiment  of  impending  evil.  He  turned 
away  with  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  uneasiness,  name- 
less dread.  He  walked  hurriedly  to  the  thronged 
street,  elbowing  his  way  blindly  along.  Then  there 
was  a  friendly  hand  heavy  on  his  back  and  a  musical 
voice  in  his  ear. 

"Look  like  you'd  been  to  a  funeral — come,  let's 


1C8         M  tht  ^ftaDoto  of  (Soa* 

have  a  bite  to  eat,  an'  we'll  see  if  we  can't  find  some- 
thing to  liven  you  up." 

Marvin  was  conscious  of  a  grateful  response  within 
at  the  touch  and  familiarity  of  this  coarse,  vital  man ; 
for  the  moment  he  envied  him. 

"I'm  glad  you're  back,"  he  said  heartily,  in  a  tone 
that  pleased  the  other  immensely.  Involuntarily  he 
put  his  arm  within  Curry's.  They  came  to  a  cheap 
restaurant  and  entered.  When  the  meal  was  under 
way,  his  companion  looked  up  and  said :  "I  tell  you, 
Garner,  what  we'll  do.  When  we  finish  this  grub, 
we'll  go  over  an'  see  some  ol'  frien's  of  mine,  an' 
have  some  music.  Now,  this  ain't  no  slouch  of  a 
meal  fer  a  quarter,  is  it  ?" 

When  they  stepped  out  into  the  street,  Curry  lit 
a  cigar. 

"JS"©  assafoetida  fer  mine  over  yere."  He  slapped 
Marvin  on  the  shoulder  and  broke  into  a  loud  guffaw. 
"You'll  be  thinkin'  me  a  regular  ol'  harry  of  a  man," 
he  said  complacently;  "an'  I  reckin  I  am.  Let's 
have  a  drink,  then  we'll  hunt  up  my  frien's." 

Marvin  declined  the  invitation,  but  waited  before 
the  saloon.  Curry  soon  came  out,  wiping  his  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  hairy  hand. 

"Some  of  the  brethren  go  to  the  drug  store  when 
they  want  a  drink — ast  fer  soda  an'  wink  fer  whisky. 
But  when  I  want  a  drink  I  go  where  they  don't 
charge  fer  the  wink.    If  it's  pizen  in  the  saloon,  it's 


Hn  ti)e  ^baDoto  of  ©oD*         i69 

pizen  in  the  drug  store,"  he  said,  bubbling  over  with 
good  humor  as  the  aforesaid  poison  began  to  stir  in 
his  blood. 

"Now,  fer  my  frien's,"  he  said,  his  arm  around 
the  other  as  they  moved  down  the  street. 

They  walked  some  blocks  and  came  to  a  silent  part 
of  the  town  where  the  street-lamps  made  but  a  feeble 
impression  on  the  gloom.  The  thoroughfare  was  de- 
serted but  for  the  occasional  cab  that  rattled  over 
the  loose  paving  stones.  Curry  stopped  before  a 
handsome  house  with  a  red  transom.  Marvin  was 
suddenly  filled  with  misgiving. 

"Your  friends  might  not  like  visitors  this  time  of 
night,"  he  said,  drawing  back.  "I'll  wait  for  you 
here." 

There  was  a  queer  chuckle  in  Curry's  throat  as  he 
pulled  the  door  bell. 

"Pshaw,  they'll  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  door  opened  softly  and  bathed  them  in  a  flood 
of  red  light.  They  were  ushered  into  an  elegant 
drawing-room  by  a  colored  maid.  Marvin  wondered 
to  see  how  much  at  home  Curry  seemed  amid  such 
surroundings. 

"Send  out  the  girls,"  he  said  with  the  easy  assur- 
ance of  one  long  familiar  with  the  inmates  of  the 
house.     "Tell  Mable  Uncle  Joe  is  come  to  see  her." 

The  maid  who  had  regarded  him  with  an  im- 
passive face,  moved  noiselessly  through  the  door. 


170         3n  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  &ot, 

Curry  sank  back  on  the  plush  cushions,  a  fine  sparkle 
in  his  eyes,  an  eager  expression  on  his  face  Marvin 
had  not  seen  there  before.  It  flashed  through  his 
mind  that  he  must  be  very  fond  of  his  friends,  and 
wondered  he  had  never  spoken  of  them.  Curry  cast 
a  quick,  furtive  glance  at  his  companion  and  looked 
away  quickly.  Then  a  young  woman  entered.  Mar- 
vin rose  involuntarily  to  be  introduced. 

"Why,  hello,  Uncle  Joe,  haven't  seen  you  in  a 
coon's  age,*'  she  said,  plumping  down  on  his  lap,  and 
embracing  him  with  mechanical  ardor.  "Who's  yer 
frien'  ?  Hello  modest,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
artist.    "Is  this  yer  first  visit  to  the  Red  Light  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Marvin,  instinctively 
bowing  to  the  speaker.  "I  see  I  am  intruding.  Good 
night,  madam."  He  turned  to  the  door.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  a  long  time  reaching  it.  As  it 
closed  on  him,  there  broke  upon  his  ear  shrieks  of 
laughter.  He  put  his  hands  to  them  and  ran  down 
the  street.  He  was  hot  with  a  sense  of  shame.  What 
had  he  said  or  done  to  lead  his  friend  to  so  mistake 
his  character.  He  became  sadly  confused ;  found  him- 
self wondering  if  everybody  was  guilty  of  what  he 
knew  himself  innocent.  Was  it  a  secret  understand- 
ing that  this  was  something  common  to  all  men — the 
being  found  out  the  only  crime  ?  Never  before  had 
he  entered  the  palace  of  the  Scarlet  Woman.  The 
thought  of  it,  colored  by  the  glimpse  he  had  had. 


3n  tfie  @)f)aDoto  of  ©oB*         in 

filled  him  with  loathing  and  pity.  He  had  often 
thought  of  men  and  women  overcome  by  unexpected 
temptation  with  a  kind  of  fellow  feeling  since  his 
mortifing  experience  at  Whiterock.  But  to  deliber- 
ately seek  temptation,  hunt  out  the  fallen  woman — 
his  sensitive  nature  was  shocked  at  the  thought. 
How  could  he  face  Curry  again  ?  But  he  had  meant 
a  kindness — he  must  look  at  it  in  that  light.  He 
began  to  plan  how  he  might  make  their  meeting  least 
embarrassing.  He  hurried  up  to  the  stores  and 
bought  a  box  of  cigars ;  then  found  the  wagon  at  the 
Farmer's  Campyard  and  sat  down  to  wait.  Growing 
impatient,  he  hitched  in  the  horses  so  that  they  could 
start  immediately  upon  his  friend's  return.  When 
at  last  the  huge  form  of  the  farmer  loomed  against 
the  yellow  flicker  of  the  street-lights,  Marvin  began 
to  whistle  cheerfully. 

"Well,  you're  just  in  time,"  he  called.  "Jimip  in 
and  drive  out — I'll  shut  the  gate."  He  thrust  the 
reins  in  Curry's  hands  and  ran  on  ahead.  He  clam- 
bered to  the  seat  and  produced  the  cigars. 

"Here's  a  box  of  assafoetida  antidote  for  us." 

"Been  blowin'  yerself  ?"  said  Curry  in  a  flat  tone 
of  gayety.  His  late  effervescence  of  spirits  had 
evaporated. 

"Yes,  let's  try  one."  They  lighted  their  cigars, 
avoiding  each  other's  eyes.  Then  they  fell  to  puffing 
in  silence.    Marvin  felt  that  he  had  indicated  to  his 


172         3n  tfie  ^SiftaliDto  of  (SoB* 

companion  that  no  word  of  apology  was  necessary 
and  made  no  further  effort  at  conversation. 

It  was  one  of  those  open,  luminous  nights  in  mid- 
summer. Not  a  cloud  appeared  in  the  wide  grey 
vaults,  and  every  star  seemed  to  dance  with  an  ex- 
uberance of  brilliancy.  The  fields  stretched  shadowy 
on  either  hand,  a  ripple  of  silver  playing  over  them 
as  blade  and  leaf  caught  the  star-light.  As  they 
rattled  along  the  top  of  the  hill  or  plunged  into  the 
damp  of  valley,  pungent  with  rank  vegetation,  the 
sky-line  moved  about  them  a  shifting  panorama. 
Now  a  farm-house,  with  its  cone-shaped  cedars,  stood 
stark  on  the  sky,  now  the  edge  of  a  wood  like  the 
teeth  of  a  colossal  saw,  now  a  gap  in  the  hills  opened 
to  the  eye  vistas  into  regions  of  mystically  soft  light. 
A  languid  breeze  stirred  in  the  upper  depths  and 
mingled  with  the  hot  breath  that  rose  from  the  earth. 
The  bark  of  a  dog,  the  rumble  of  a  distant  wagon, 
occasionally  floated  on  the  air.  Marvin  had  forgotten 
his  companion  as  his  eye  roved  the  scene. 

"Garner,  I'm  a  brute,"  Curry  cried  into  the  night 
vehemently.  There  was  genuine  penitance  in  his 
voice.  "I  know  you  think  me  a  beastly  oV  hypocrite, 
an'  I  am — I  can't  help  it.  I've  tried  an'  tried,  swore 
to  myself,  to  God,  I'd  never  do  it  agin,  an'  I  go 
straight  an'  do  it  the  first  chanct.  It  was  wrong  to 
deceive  you — but  I  thought  I'z  doin'  you  a  favor. 
Most  young  men  would  'a'  thanked  me." 


In  tfie  ©fiaDoto  of  &oU.        173 

Marvin  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on :  '^ You  put 
me  to  shame,  Garner,  me  bein'  a  church  member  an' 
a  deacon ;  but  the  Lord  put  it  in  me  an'  I  can't  help 
it,  an'  if  He  can,  He  don't."  He  had  talked  himself 
from  repentance  to  justification. 

"You'll  not  hoi'  it  agin  me.  Garner?  You 
know " 

"We'll  forget  it,"  said  Marvin  in  a  calm  tone  of 
finality.    "Isn't  this  a  fine  night  ?" 

"Well,  hadn't  noticed  it,"  returned  the  other,  lift- 
ing his  head,  disconcerted  at  Marvin's  summary  dis- 
missal of  the  unsavory  subject. 

They  rode  for  some  time  in  silence.  The  dark 
fields  moving  in  slow  procession  past  them;  above, 
the  stars  revolving  in  the  mysterious  spaces.  Curry 
let  his  hand  fall  caressingly  on  his  companion's  knee. 

"Garner,  you're  a  gentleman,"  he  said  with  con- 
yiction. 


iH        3n  tfte  S'JjaDoto  of  (Sod* 


CHAPTER   V. 

Mrs.  Curry  had  been  in  Harris  some  days  taking 
treatment  of  a  magnetic  healer.  In  the  meantime 
her  husband  had  been  holding  high  jinks.  The  flask 
he  brought  from  town  set  boldly  on  the  mantle,  and 
he  went  about  the  place  smoking  without  fear  or 
thought  of  assafoetida. 

One  day  he  came  in  from  a  tour  of  the  fields  his 
face  glowing  like  a  coal,  dripping  with  moisture  and 
blowing  like  an  ox. 

"I'm  goin'  to  make  half  bale  to  the  acre  if  I  make 
a  pound,"  he  said  enthusiastically.  "She's  done 
made,  rain  er  shine.  Three  more  weeks  an'  it'll  be 
ready  to  tackle,"  and  he  held  out  some  plump  green 
boles  for  Marvin's  inspection. 

"I  don't  know  what's  got  into  that  Laramore  girl," 
he  said,  after  a  little.  "I  can't  go  to  that  east  field 
that  jines  their  pasture  'thout  seein'  her  sittin'  under 
the  big  liveoak  er  hear  her  somewhere  in  the  woods 
singin'  like  she's  tryin'  to  bust  her  throat.  An'  sech 
outlandish  songs,  l^ow,  there's  a  girl  fer  you,  fer 
all  her  tom-boy  ways.  Everytime  I  see  her  makes 
me  feel  like  a  boy  jest  turned  his  teens." 

"Well,  bless  my  eyes,"  he  broke  off  suddenly,  star- 


3n  tfte  Sf)aDoto  of  ©oD*         i75 

ing  across  the  fields.  Marvin  looked  in  that  direc- 
tion. Miss  Laramore  was  midway  the  cotton  rows, 
the  brownish  green  foliage  in  rank  luxuriance  laving 
her  breast.  As  she  parted  the  boughs  with  her  arms 
she  looked  like  a  swimmer  battling  the  waves. 

"I  wonder  what  she's  after,"  mused  Curry.  "She 
shorely  can't  know  wife's  gone,  though  I  reckin  it 
wouldn't  make  no  difference  to  her." 

Marvin's  heart  beat  riotously.  He  felt  that  Curry 
must  surely  hear  it  and  guess  his  secret.  The  cause 
of  their  perturbation  came  on  gracefully,  riding  the 
green  billows  till  at  last  they  parted  and  she  stood 
at  the  end  of  the  rows.  It  was  a  picture  of  dainty 
elegance  as  she  stood  against  the  background  of  green 
and  glistening  blue;  a  white  compact  cloud  in  the 
far  off  space  a  halo  above  her  head.  She  tossed  a 
straying  curl  from  her  cheek  and  waved  her  hand 
toward  the  watchers.  Marvin  rose  to  his  feet. 
Curry's  eyes  widened  in  amazement  as  he  glanced 
from  the  girl  to  his  companion. 

"You  know  her  ?"  he  asked. 

"We  have  met,"  said  Marvin,  lifting  his  hat, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  other. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Artist,"  she  said  graciously, 
as  she  came  forward  and  offered  her  hand. 

"Good  morning.  Miss  Prima  Donna,"  he  returned, 
admiration  in  his  eyes  as  unmistakably  as  the  sun  in 
the  heavens. 


176         3n  tfte  ^ftasoto  of  ©oH* 

"I  hope  I  didn't  trample  your  crop,  Mr.  Curry; 
but  I  couldn't  find  the  road,  if  really  there  is  one." 

"You're  welcome  to  do  all  the  tramplin'  'bout  yere 
you're  min'  to,  Miss,"  he  said,  shifting  awkwardly 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  glancing  down  at  her 
small  patent-leather  boot.  Her  presence  seemed  to 
add  a  brightness  to  the  white  glow  of  the  morning. 

"What  a  nice  cool  place — and  what  a  lovely  view," 
she  said,  sweeping  the  fields  and  sky.  "How  big  the 
world  seems." 

It  was  a  tranquil  morning  of  wide,  clear  distances, 
and  Marvin  was  glad  that  it  appealed  to  her. 

"Well,  Mr.  Artist,  I've  come  for  a  private  view." 

"They  are  up  in  my  room — I'll  bring  them  down." 

"No,  no ;  let  me  see  your  studio  ?" 

Marvin  hesitated.  He  glanced  to  where  Curry 
stood,  apparently  rooted  to  the  earth,  regarding  him 
with  admiring  awe.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  realize 
that  he  made  the  proverbial  crowd,  and,  turning, 
walked  away  stiiSly,  as  if  he  felt  two  pair  of  eyes  bor- 
ing into  him.  When  he  was  out  of  sight  he  sat  down 
on  the  kitchen  steps  and  mopped  his  brow. 

"You'll  not  find  it  so  big  as  out  here — and  there 
are  steps  to  climb,"  said  Marvin,  dissuadingly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind." 

"Then  I  shall  be  honored,"  he  said,  leading  the 
way. 

"Oh,   what   a   cute  little   room/'  she  exclaimed, 


3n  tfie  SfiaDoto  of  ©oD*        irr 

emerging  from  the  perpendicular  steps  into  the  attic. 

"Be  careful  of  your  head,"  cautioned  Marvin. 
"You'll  find  it  pleasanter  out  here,"  he  said,  stepping 
onto  the  porch  and  offering  a  chair. 

"What  a  bird's  nest  of  a  place.  Why,  you're  right 
up  in  the  treetops  and  sky."  She  burst  into  a  little 
trill  of  song.  "But  I  mustn't  do  that — I'll  frighten 
your  birds,"  she  said  laughing,  peering  about  into 
the  foliage. 

"They'll  think  you  are  one  of  them." 

"Oh,  thank  you." 

"You  sing  like  a  mocking-bird." 

"Thanks  number  two — now  for  the  pictures.'' 

He  brought  out  the  first  of  the  series  of  prairie 
views.  She  sat  down  and  dropping  her  chin  to  the 
palm  of  her  hand,  scanned  it  critically.  Marvin 
watched  her  narrowly,  his  eyes  aglow  with  passion, 
pride.  He  needed  no  words  to  tell  him  that  she  was 
surprised  and  pleased.    She  could  not  conceal  it. 

"How  cruel !"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  as  she  studied 
"God  in  the  Blizzard,"  an  expression  of  pain  on  her 
face.  "It  almost  makes  me  shiver.  Mr.  Garner^  I 
think  you  must  really  be  an  artist."  She  looked  up 
with  frank  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

"Thank  you." 

"And  you've  done  all  this  work  without  having 
studied  abroad  ?"  she  asked  after  a  while. 

"Only  three  months  in  l^ew  York." 


178         3n  tfte  SftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

"It's  wonderful.  It  makes  me  feel  fearful  I 
haven't  any  talent.  Why,  I've  been  studying  since 
I  was  knee  high  and  IVe  got  to  take  three  years  more 
in  Berlin.  Mr.  Garner,  I  don't  know  much  about 
such  things,  but  it  seems  to  me  your  pictures  are 
wonderful.  Would  you  mind  if  father  came  over  to 
see  them  ?" 

"Why,  I'd  be  glad." 

"I^ow,  I  must  go,"  she  said,  rising. 

"I've  shown  you  all  the  pictures." 

"And  I  thank  you." 

"And  I  thank  you — for  coming." 

"To  see  the  pictures — or  as  an  old  friend?"  she 
said  archly. 

"Both.    I  did  not  think  you'd  care — for  the  other." 

"Have  you  forgotten  how  long  we  have  known  each 
other?" 

"I  thought  you — had  forgotten  ?" 

"But  you  reminded  me.  I  told  father  and  he 
thought  it  quite  remarkable  that  we  should  meet 
again,  and  that  you  should  recognize  me.  You  do 
not  paint  under  the  trees  any  more?  I'm  afraid  I 
frightened  you  off." 

"E^o,  I've  not  been  painting  much  lately."  He  had 
an  impulse  to  tell  her  why — how  he  had  thought  of 
nothing  but  her — how  he  loved  her.  But  he  realized 
how  utterly  foolish  it  would  be.  Even  if  she  should 
care  for  him  it  would  be  wrong  to  take  advantage  of 


Kn  tfte  ^{jaDoto  of  ©oD*         iro 

her  innocence.  He  could  not  tell  her  that  he  was  in 
disgrace;  he  could  not  deceive  her;  the  only  thing 
possible  was  for  her  to  go  quickly  out  of  his  life.  A 
gloom  settled  on  him  that  numbed  his  tongue.  His 
spirits  seemed  for  the  moment  to  darken  hers.  She 
regarded  him  in  perplexity.  Then,  after  a  moment, 
she  said  cheerfully. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel.  It's  awful  to  get  dis- 
couraged.    But  you'll  succeed — you'll  succeed." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  coloring. 

She  stepped  quickly  into  the  room.  Turning  to 
look  for  the  stairs,  her  eyes  fell  upon  his  easel.  On 
it  was  an  unfinished  sketch  of  herself.  There  was 
just  an  instant  hesitation,  then  she  began  the  descent. 
He  conducted  her  along  the  turning-rows  between  the 
patches  and  helped  her  over  the  fence.  Then  they 
stood  for  a  space  in  constrained  silence. 

"I  shall  expect  you  over  soon  to  hear  me  sing." 

"Thank  you,  very  much." 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye."  He  watched  her  picking  her  way 
along  the  trees,  till  the  last  flutter  of  her  dress  had 
vanished,  a  sickening  oppression  weighing  him  down. 
He  felt  he  had  acted  boorishly.  But  it  was  just  the 
same;  he  would  see  her  no  more.  But  on  second 
thought  he  wished  it  might  have  ended  differently. 
He  turned  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  house. 
Curry  stood  beneath  the  trees  waiting  him,  a  broad 


180         3n  tlie  ^gaDoto  of  <S^oD« 

grin  on  his  face.  He  slapped  Marvin  on  the  back  and 
broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

^' Bully  fer  you,  Garner.  Oh,  you're  a  sly  one.  How 
long  has  it  been  goin'  on  ?" 

Marvin's  face  went  white.  "Mr.  Curry,  what  do 
you  mean  ?"  he  cried,  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  his  eyes 
flashing. 

Curry  was  confounded,  and  sank  into  a  chair 
shame-faced. 

"Why,  man,"  said  Marvin,  with  vehement  indig- 
nation; "she's  pure  as  a  flower;  she's  an  angel." 

"I'm  a  foul-minded  ol'  sinner,"  moaned  Curry. 
"Garner,  forgive  me.  I  see  it  all  now — ^you  love 
her?" 

"Love  her  ? — God,  I  could  worship  her !" 

He  strode  back  and  forth  the  baked  earth,  beside 
himself  with  resentment,  passion.  His  mind  was  in 
a  whirl  of  confusion.  He  thought  for  a  moment  of 
Curry  as  the  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  the  world — 
gross,  animal,  evil.  One  was  a  fool  to  try  to  be  good 
and  pure.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  bowed  head  of 
the  offender ;  he  was  filled  with  pity,  for  he  had  come 
to  love  the  crude  old  man  sincerely. 

"It's  all  right,  Mr.  Curry,"  he  said  kindly.  "Of 
course,  you  couldn't  know." 

"Garner,  you  put  me  to  shame,"  Curry  faltered, 
not  looking  up.  Marvin  turned,  leaving  the  drooping 
figure  staring  stupidly  at  the  hot  earth. 


3n  ttt  ^iiaOobi  of  &oh.        isi 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"Yes,  you  can  bank  on  'em  bein'  cold.  Garner  an' 
me  fetched  'em  in  this  mornin'  'fore  sun  up,"  said 
Curry,  laying  a  watermelon  on  some  boards,  the  third 
he  had  brought  up  from  the  cellar. 

"Well,  tastin'  is  believin', "  said  Roberts,  picking 
up  a  long  butcher's  knife  and  slashing  open  the  green 
spheres.  He  then  leaned  back  and  surveyed  the  six 
red,  bleeding  hearts  as  if  he  deserved  credit  for  the 
inviting  feast. 

"Pitch  in,  pitch  in,"  urged  Curry.  "I  did'nt  fetch 
'em  out  yere  to  look  at." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Brown.  "Looks  like 
they  might  'a'  been  cut  from  a  catalogue." 

"An'  that's  sayin'  a  good  deal,"  returned  Roberts ; 
"fer  they  do  color  the  pichers  up  wonderful." 

''Well,  picher  er  no  picher,  yere  goes.  Can't  stan' 
the  aggervatin'  look  of  'em  no  longer." 

"Pine,  Curry,  fine — never  tasted  a  better  one.  Jest 
cold  to  the  taste,"  said  Smith,  biting  into  a  generous 
slice.  "But  speakin'  of  pichers — I  hear  that  young 
feller  Garner  is  makin'  'em  out  of  everything  in 


182         3n  tbe  S'ftaDoto  of  ©oD, 

sight  roun'  yere?  Queer  how  some  folks  wastes 
their  time?'' 

"Well,  Jim  Smith,  when  you  can  make  a  picher 
that'll  fetch  a  hundred  dollars  clean  cash,  I  reckin 
you'll  hardly  call  it  wastin'  of  time.*' 

"You  don't  say  he  sells  'em  fer  a  hundred  ?" 

"That's  what  I  do.  That  Laramore  girl  come  over 
one  day  to  see  his  picher s,  then  in  a  few  days  tlie 
ol'  man  turned  up  an'  plunked  down  a  hundred  fer 
one  no  bigger  than  the  top  of  a  cracker  box.  Why, 
I  could  git  my  arms  full  of  'em  jest  as  big  an'  jest  as 
much  color  to  'em,  with  a  calendar  stuck  on  to  boot, 
over  to  Harris  fer  the  astin'.  But  Garner's  none  yer 
^ordinary  chaps,  an'  I  think  I'm  on  to  a  thing  er 
two.  He's  got  something  in  his  min'  bigger  than 
pichers.  He's  in  love  with  that  Laramore  girl.  It's 
my  idee  he's  follered  'em  down  from  Xew  York  an' 
the  picher  makin'  is  jest  an  excuse.  But  he's  got 
it  bad.  Whole  days  he  don't  do  a  blessed  thing  but 
mope  roun'  the  house  er  wander  'bout  the  woods  like 
he's  lost.    'Ro  appetite  at  all." 

"Yes,  them's  the  symptoms,"  said  Brown.  "I 
remember  when  I'z  courtin'  Jane  there'z  weeks  I 
didn't  scarcely  know  who  I  was.  One  day  I  went 
over  fer  the  mail  an'  stood  starin'  at  the  postmaster 
till  he  says,  ^what's  yer  name  V  Darn  me,  if  I  could 
tell.  Bill  Simpson  happened  in  'bout  that  time,  an' 
I  says,  'Bill,  who  am  I V     Well,  Bill  jest  bust  out 


3n  tfie  SijaDoto  of  <©ali*         iss 

in  one  of  them  idit  laughs  of  his  an'  says,  *You'r  a 
darn  lunatik.'  The  postmaster  grinned  an'  says  I'd 
come  to  the  wrong  place." 

"A  very  unprovidential  thing  that  a  feller  should 
lose  his  senses  jest  at  the  time  when  he  needs  'em 
most,"  said  Graham. 

^^Maybe  it's  the  ol'  man  that's  makin'  Garner  so 
loony?"  suggested  Roberts. 

"Well,  throwin'  good  money  away  on  that  picher 
looks  like  he  might  'a'  meant  to  encourage  him.  But 
it's  true  'bout  him  bein'  a  inferdel.  I  looked  to  see 
him  struck  down  the  way  he  went  on  with  his  blas- 
phemy the  day  he's  over.  When  he  come  down  from 
seein'  the  pichers,  I  fetched  out  some  China  Clings 
an'  he  set  down  an'  talked  jest  as  sociable  as  a  com- 
mon farmer.  Well,  'bout  that  time  Tom  Rutan  hap- 
pened in,  an'  first  thing  you  knowed  he'd  tackled 
Laramore.  Tom,  you  know,  would  tackle  anything — 
he  ain't  got  no  more  sense.  I've  no  doubt  if  he  got  a 
chanct  he'd  buttonhole  the  President  an'  tell  him  jest 
how  to  run  the  government.  Always  been  a  mystery 
to  me  how  these  fellers  that's  never  done  nothin'  can 
tell  the  other  feller  exactly  how  he  ought  to  do  it; 
without  a  breath  of  religin  they  know  where  every- 
body else  is  wrong ;  couldn't  be  'lected  dog  pelter  but 
know  how  to  run  the  world.  Well,  Tom  had  heard 
of  Laramore's  onreligusness  an'  waded  in  to  show 
him  the  errer  of  his  way.    But  wasn't  no  time  till 


184         3n  ti)e  gi&aDotai  of  (fi^oO. 

he  was  gawkin'  with  his  mouth  open  like  a  fool,  tHat 
he  is.  Why,  that  man  knows  more  in  a  niinit  than 
Tom  Rutan  ever  hearn  of.  That's  jest  the  trouble 
with  him — he  knows  too  much.  When  a  man  gits  so 
edjucated  he  thinks  he  can  ^x  up  a  God  an'  religin  to 
suit  his  own  idees,  why,  edjucation  has  overreached 
itself.  Why,  he  said  there  wasn't  no  God,  jest  laws 
of  Nature  run  things;  that  man  growed  up  from 
nothin',  devoluted,  I  believe  he  called  it,  from  tad- 
poles, monkeys,  an'  sech.  That  there  wasn't  no 
heaven  er  hell  only  in  men's  min's ;  no  sin,  jest  right 
an'  wrong,  an'  what  follers  'em,  an'  that  the  greatest 
evil  in  the  world  was  to  be  ignorant  an'  not  able  to 
think." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Brown;  "no  doubt  he  was 
lamed.  But  it  was  the  wrong  kind.  There's  two 
kinds  of  wisdom;  that  of  the  wise  an'  that  of  the 
foolish.  The  Scripchers  say,  ^The  fool  has  said  in 
his  heart  there  is  no  God,'  an'  'agin  it  says,  ^It  is 
hid  from  the  wise  an'  revealed  unto  babes,'  an'  if 
I'd  'a'  been  Tom  I'd  'a'  quoted  'em  to  him  an' 
stopped  his  mouth." 

"How  you  goin'  to  stop  a  feller's  mouth  when  it's 
done  closed  ?"  said  Roberts.  "Why,  Laramore  don't 
think  no  more  of  yer  Scripchers  than  I  do  of  a  last 
year's  almanac.  Scripcher  was  good  enough  fer  them 
that  didn't  know  better,  but  we  know  better.  An'  it's 
a  weakkneed  feller  that's  'fraid  of  what  he  knows 


In  tfte  SftaDoto  of  ©oO^         185 

^cause  it  don't  fit  what  he'z  been  taught  somebody  else 
thought  they  knowed.  What  did  God  Almighty  give 
us  a  headpiece  fer,  grantin'  there  is  a  Almighty,  if  it 
wasn't  fer  us  to  use  ?  Laramore  was  right.  We  can 
think  jest  the  same  as  them  Jews." 

"Koberts,  you  air  speakin'  blasphemy.  An'  it's  a 
darin'  thing  fer  a  man  in  yer  condition  of  life  to  do. 
If  you'z  rich  an'  could  have  yer  good  time  yere,  ye 
might  snap  yer  finger  in  the  face  of  Providence.  But 
we  pore  devils  ought  to  try  an'  stan'  in  with  the  Al- 
mighty, fer  if  he  don't  look  after  us  in  kingdom  come, 
we'll  find  ourselves  in  a  hard  row  of  stumps.  The 
trouble  all  grows  out  of  thinkin'.  We  ain't  no  biz- 
ness  thinkin'.  God  put  us  yere  to  live.  He'z  thought 
the  whole  thing  out  fer  us  an'  none  of  yer  head  work 
er  mine  is  goin'  to  change  it ;  an'  then,  fer  that  matter, 
you'll  have  all  eternity  to  think  in.  Take  my  advice, 
git  the  most  out  of  this  life  an'  stan'  in  with  the  Al- 
mighty fer  the  nex'." 

'^No  doubt  you'r  right,  Curry,"  said  Graham ;  "but 
you  must  admit  the  Scripchers  do  say  some  hard  say- 
in's.  An'  show  me  the  man  that  keeps  'em.  When  I 
think  of  that,  I  jest  says  to  myself  I'll  be  lost  any- 
how, an'  there  ain't  no  use  worryin'  'bout  it." 

"But  there's  where  you'r  wrong,"  returned  Curry. 
"The  good  Lord's  done  kept  the  sayin's  fer  us.  He 
died  fer  our  sins.  If  we  don't  sin  what's  the  use  of 
his  dyin'  ?    He  don't  save  us  yere — we  all  know  that. 


186         3n  tfte  ^baDoU)  of  ©oD* 

Look  at  Laramore,  rich  an'  blasphemous;  an'  look  at 
me,  believin'  an'  pore  as  Job's  turkey.  But  jest  wait 
till  the  nex'  world.  Then  we'll  see  who  wears  the 
purple  an'  fine  linen  an'  dines  sumptiously  every 
day " 

"But  you'll  be  spirits,"  insisted  Koberts;  "nobody 
fer  robes  ner  appetite  fer  sumptuous  fare." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  'bout  that  kind  of  heaven.  If 
I  don't  have  this  body  it  won't  be  me,  an'  if  it  ain't 
me  where  do  I  come  in  ?  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  yer 
spirit  heaven.  Think  of  eternity  an'  you  never  hear 
the  dinner  horn,  an'  no  marryin'  er  givin'  in  mar- 
riage, an'  the  habit  so  strong  on  us." 

"JSTow,  that's  a  new  idee,"  said  Graham;  "not 
hearin'  the  dinner  horn.  But  I  wouldn't  worry  'bout 
t'other,  less'n  we  all  had  a  chanct  to  git  a  fresh  part- 
ner an'  no  likelihood  of  makin'  a  bad  chice." 

"There  you  go,  Graham;  always  havin'  a  fling  at 
the  female  sex.  One  would  think  you  made  a  mistake 
when  you  got  hitched  to  Jemima — but  I  remember 
you  were  keen  enough  fer  the  harnessin'." 

"Well,"  returned  Graham ;  "marryin'  is  like  horse 
tradin'.  You  want  to  know  what  you'r  'bout  er  keep 
out,  fer  you  never  can  tell  what  you'r  gittin'.  A 
woman's  sharper'n  a  jockey  fer  patchin'  up  defects. 
But  it's  a  mighty  pore  man  that'll  go  'bout  the  neigh- 
borhood tellin'  he's  made  a  bad  bargain." 

"Well,  it's  my  opinion,"  broke  in  Eoberts,  "that 


3n  tfie  SfiaDDto  of  aoD*        isr 

it's  a  mighty  pore  woman  that  ain't  better  than  we 
deserve.  We'r  jest  male  animals  when  all's  said.  An' 
speakin'  of  heaven — I  guess  a  woman  has  as  much 
to  do  with  makin'  it  as  the  Almighty  you  talk  so  much 
about — I  wouldn't  care  fer  heaven  without  'em,  as 
Curry  says,  ner " 

"Beggin'  yer  pardin,  Roberts,  an'  not  meanin'  to 
change  the  subject,  but  how's  yer  wife  doin'  now, 
Curry  ?"  asked  Brown. 

"Why,  she  says  she's  doin'  fine — feels  like  a  new 
creature,  though  how  long  it'll  last  is  another  ques- 
tion." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  healer  ?"  asked  Roberts. 

"Oh,  he's  a  humbug,  but  w^fe  believes  in  him.  An' 
if  she  can  be  humbugged  into  believin'  she's  well,  it's 
jest  as  good  as  docterin',  though  it  do  come  a  little 
higher.  But  people  like  to  be  humbugged,  an'  the 
higher  it  comes  the  better  it  is." 

"Yes,  you  air  right,"  assented  Brown.  "People 
love  to  be  humbugged.  I  took  over  my  wife's  eggs 
to  Harris  t'other  day,  an'  when  the  grocer  looked  at 
'em  he  ast  if  they  were  fresh.  I  tol'  him  they  were 
'bout  a  week  ol',  fer  I  knowed  my  wife  had  been  savin' 
'em  up  'bout  that  long.  Well,  he  wouldn't  look  at 
'em.  Said  he  was  buyin'  only  fresh  eggs,  not  over 
a  day  ol'.  Well,  I  went  out  an'  waited  roun'  the  cor- 
ner fer  half  an  hour  an'  then  went  back  an'  hunted 
up  the  same  feller.    ^Look  yere,'  I  says,  'I've  got  some 


i8d         3n  tbt  @i)aOotu  of  (&^oD« 

fresh  eggs,  jest  gathered  'em  up  this  mornin',  what'll 
you  give  me  fer  'em?'  'Fifteen  cents/  he  says.  'I 
won't  take  it,'  I  says.  'These  air  fresh  eggs  an'  ought 
to  bring  a  fancy  price.'  Well,  sir,  he  give  me  twenty- 
two  fer  them  eggs." 

"You  don't  call  that  humbuggin'  V*  asked  Roberts. 

"Shore ;  I'd  like  to  know  what  else  you'd  call  it  ?" 

"Why,  I  'd  call  it  straight  lyin'." 

"What's  the  difference  ?  You  make  a  feller  think 
he'z  gittin'  what  he'z  payin'  fer.  If  he  don't  it's  his 
lookout.    That's  bizness." 

"Well,  them  melons  ain't  no  humbug,  fer  a  fact," 
said  Roberts,  rising;  "but  I've  got  to  go,  men.    All 


In  the  SfiaDoto  of  (DoD*        i89 


CHAPTER   VII. 

September  with  its  grey  haziness  and  purple  dis- 
tances stole  over  the  land.  The  sun  shone  down  ob- 
liquely with  a  languid  palor,  and  a  vague  somberness 
touched  the  landscape.  The  fields  of  com  and  cotton 
stretched  great  blotches  of  white  and  brown,  a  colos- 
sal checker-board  under  the  eye.  Midway  the  rows 
of  Curry's  patch,  late  one  afternoon,  Marvin  crawled 
slowly,  his  hands  moving  in  and  out  the  browning 
stems  as  he  plucked  the  white  pods,  his  sack  trailing 
behind  him  like  a  collapsed  balloon  dragging  on  the 
ground.  A  straw  hat  slouched  over  his  eyes;  his 
flannel  shirt  was  stained  with  bruised  leaves,  and  his 
trousers  were  encrusted  with  dirt  from  crawling  on 
his  knees.  A  few  rows  off,  slightly  in  advance,  were 
the  stooped  figures  of  Curry  and  Emma.  He  could 
hear  their  voices  occasionally  in  desultory  remarks. 
He  straightened  up,  his  hands  on  his  hip,  and  threw 
back  his  shoulder  as  if  to  ease  them  a  moment  from 
the  strained  posture.  His  eyes  wandered  leisurely  over 
the  view.  In  every  direction  groups  of  bowed  toilers 
moved  across  the  fields.  A  distant  hillside  rose  against 
the  sky  like  a  white  cloud.     He  looked  in  another 


190         3n  tfie  SftaDoto  of  &ot, 

direction  and  followed  the  windings  of  a  black  road. 
On  it  wagons  moved  slowly,  piled  high  with  cotton 
for  the  gins  or  bales  for  the  market.  As  he  stood  fac- 
ing the  low  setting  sun,  there  was  nothing  in  his  ap- 
pearance out  of  harmony  with  his  surroundings — he 
looked  native  to  the  soil.  Yet  his  thoughts  were  not 
of  corn  and  cotton ;  the  yield  or  market  price.  It  was 
now  but  a  few  days  till  the  convening  of  the  confer- 
ence at  Harris.  Already  he  had  received  notification 
of  the  date  of  the  trial.  Yet  he  found  himself  looking 
forward  to  it  with  strange  indifference.  Since  he  had 
given  up,  what  he  considered,  his  hopeless  passion,  he 
had  in  spite  of  himself  lost  interest  in  his  art.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  life  or  effort  of  any  kind  would 
never  again  be  worth  while.  His  ambitions  had  sud- 
denly dropped  from  him  and  he  felt  himself  drifting. 
It  had  come  to  him  more  than  once  not  to  attend  the 
conference ;  to  let  it  do  its  worst.  He  would  remain 
with  Curry.  The  crude,  simple  life  just  at  this  junc- 
ture appealed  to  him  strongly.  He  was  tired  of  the 
struggle  that  brought  only  humiliation,  unrest.  But 
these  were  only  passing  moods.  He  knew  that  he 
could  not  be  content  long  in  the  monotonous  round  of 
mere  physical  exertion,  however  numbing  to  his  pain 
at  present.  He  had  gone  too  far;  he  had  realized 
glimpses  of  another  life  that  he  could  not  forget.  He 
could  not  go  back  to  the  plain  on  which  Curry  moved 
no  more  than  Curry  could  climb  to  his. 


In  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  (SoD*         i9i 

The  sun  sank  a  great  yellow  ball  through  the  grey 
haze.  He  reached  the  end  of  the  row  and  went  with 
his  companions  to  the  pen  to  weigh  his  cotton  and 
empty  his  sack. 

"Hundred  and  fifty  for  you  to-day,  Garner/'  said 
Curry.  "You'd  make  a  number  one  cotton-picker  in 
a  season  er  two.  But  wliy  you'd  rather  pick  cotton  at 
six-bits  a  day  than  paint  hundred-dollar  pichers  is 
more'n  I  can  guess.  You  wouldn't  ketch  me  breakin' 
my  back  at  it  if  it  wasn't  that  er  starve.  If  we  keep 
up  this  lick,  we'll  have  it  out  in  two  more  weeks." 

"When  are  you  going  over  to  Harris  with  a  load, 
Mr.  Curry  ?"  asked  Marvin. 

"  'Bout  day  after  termorrow.  I've  got  two  bales  I'd 
like  to  git  on  the  market  while  the  price  is  up." 

"I'll  get  you  to  take  my  things  over,  then." 

"Leavin'  us  Saturday?"  said  Curry,  astonished. 
"Why,  you  ain't  said  a  word  about  it  ?" 

"i^o,  I  didn't  think  it  necessary  till  I  got  ready  to 
go." 

"Where  you  goin'  ? — "New  York  ?  I  hear  the  Lara- 
mores  air  leavin'  in  a  few  days." 

"E'o ;  I'll  not  go  to  ]N'ew  York.  I'll  remain  in  Har- 
ris a  while.    I've  not  settled  on  any  plans." 

"Well,  I  shore  hate  to  see  you  go." 

Curry  looked  disappointed.  He  was  sure  now  that 
his  conjectures  were  correct.  He  had  thought  a  lot 
of  the  change  that  had  come  over  Marvin  since  Miss 


102         3n  tbt  *l)aDoto  of  ©oD. 

Laramore's  visit.  lie  could  account  for  it  in  no  other 
way  than  that  something  had  gone  wrong  between 
them.  He  walked  with  Marvin  along  the  turning 
rows,  now  grown  up  with  weeds,  passed  under  the 
trees  before  the  house,  and  out  to  the  barn,  in  silence. 
Here  he  stopped  and  faced  his  companion. 

"Garner,  I  don't  want  to  interfere  where  it  ain't 
none  of  my  bizness,  but  you'r  in  trouble.  If  I  can 
help  you  any  way,  er  it  will  do  you  good  to  talk  it 
over  with  some  one,  why,  out  with  it.  It  won't  go  no 
further.  I  like  you  an'  it  makes  me  feel  sad  to  see 
you  goin'  'bout  all  weighed  down  in  yer  min'.  It'll  do 
you  good  to  let  it  out.  Trouble  is  like  biliousness,  the 
quicker  you  git  it  out  of  yer  system  the  better.  You've 
been  tryin'  to  work  it  out  an'  failed,  now  'spose  you 
try  talking.  'Tain't  good  for  yer  health  to  be  nursin' 
yer  woes." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Curry ;  if  you  could  help  me  I'd 
be  glad  to  have  you  do  so.  You've  been  very  kind  to 
me." 

"Now,  look  yere,  Garner,  you  can't  fool  me.  I've 
lived  too  long  not  to  'a'  had  a  few  things  soak  into 
my  head.  I  know  what's  the  matter — you've  quar- 
relled with  yer  swetheart.    Now,  honest  ?" 

"No/  I've  quarrelled  with  no  one." 

Curry  regarded  him  in  perplexity.  He  was  at  his 
wits'-end.  "Well,  I  hope  whatever  it  is,  you'll  come 
out  all  right.    But  I  want  you  to  know  I'm  yer  frien', 


In  tfie  SftaDoto  of  (&oD*         193 

when  you  need  me,"  and  he  turned  and  began  the 
feeding. 

After  supper  he  told  his  wife  he  had  to  go  to  see  a 
neighbor.  He  passed  into  the  lane  and  followed  it 
till  out  of  sight  of  the  house;  then  he  climbed  the 
fence  and  plunged  into  the  woods  in  the  direction  of 
Laramore's.  Reaching  the  house,  he  inquired  for 
Miss  Mildred.  She  came  out,  and,  though  surprised 
at  his  visit,  greeted  him  pleasantly  and  asked  him  in. 

"E'o,  thank  you,"  he  said  hurriedly;  "jest  come 
over  to  speak  a  word  with  you,  if  you  don't  min',  Miss 
Laramore." 

"Why,  no,"  she  said,  coming  down  the  steps  to  hi* 
side.    "Is  there  something  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

Curry  hesitated  but  an  instant.  "Mr.  Garner  is 
leavin'  day  after  termorrow,"  he  said  abruptly.  "He's 
been  terrible  troubled  since  you  were  over  to  see  him." 

"Why,  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry." 

"I  thought  maybe  something  had  happened  between 
you,"  he  went  on  bluntly.  "An' — an'  I  happen  to 
know  Garner  worships  the  ground  you  walk  on." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  tell  me.  Did  he  ask  you 
to?" 

"Oh,  gracious,  no.  I  couldn't  git  a  word  outen  him, 
that's  why  I  come.  He'd  be  roar  in'  mad  if  he  knew 
what  I'm  doin'.  I  seen  something  was  prayin'  on  his 
min'  an'  as  you  didn't  come  over  agin  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  quarrelled  er  something.     You'll  not  min'  my 


194        3n  tht  Siftaooto  of  (Soa* 

interferin'  an'  not  breathe  a  word  to  him.  Garner^s 
my  fren'  an'  I'd  like  to  do  him  a  good  turn  if  I  can. 
I  jest  thought  I'd  let  you  know  he's  goin'." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you."  She  turned  to  the  door. 
"Good  night,  Mr.  Curry." 

The  following  day  as  the  cotton-pickers  were 
emptying  their  sacks  at  the  end  of  the  rows,  a  song 
burst  from  the  trees  just  beyond.  They  turned  in  sur- 
prise and  saw  Miss  Laramore  coming  across  the  past- 
ure knee-deep  in  the  tangle  of  weeds,  spikes  of  scarlet 
flowers  in  her  hand,  pinned  on  her  bosom  and  festoon- 
ing her  hat. 

"See  what  I  have  been  picking,  Mr.  Artist,"  she 
said,  holding  out  the  blossoms.  Marvin's  face  went  as 
red  as  the  flowers  as  he  glanced  down  at  his  clothes. 

"So  you've  given  up  painting  fields  and  gone  to 
picking  them  ?"  she  said,  appearing  not  to  notice  his 
embarrassment.  "Mr.  Curry,  won't  you  let  me  help 
you  too  ?  I'm  sure  it  must  be  ever  so  nice.  Why,  it 
looks  like  a  heap  of  snow,"  she  said,  running  her  hand 
over  the  loose  cotton  in  the  pen. 

"You'd  not  find  cotton-picking  as  nice  as  picking 
flowers.  Miss  Laramore,  if  you  should  try,"  said  Mar- 
vin quietly,  recovering  his  composure. 

"I'm  sure  I'd  like  it  for  a  while.  May  I  have  some 
of  these  stalks  to  go  with  my  blossoms,  Mr.  Curry  ?" 
she  said,  breaking  off  some  full-opened  boles.     "My 


In  tfte  @)I)aDoto  of  ©oD*         195 

friends  in  New  York  would  think  them  beautiful 
flowers." 

'^Well,  Em,  we  must  go,"  said  Curry,  turning.  He 
moved  off  briskly,  Emma  trotting  at  his  side.  The  two 
left  alone  stood  facing  each  other  a  moment  in  silence. 

"How  unkind  of  you  not  to  keep  your  word  ?"  she 
said  reproachfully. 

"It  is  not  because  I  did  not  care  to — I've  been  very 
busy,"  he  returned,  hardening  himself  to  the  impulses 
that  began  to  stir  within  his  soul. 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  such  good  friends  ?" 

"I  hope  we  are." 

"Friends  find  time  to  see  each  other.  You 
didn't  care  to  hear  me  sing  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  how  much  I  desire  it.  Some  day  I 
hope  I  may — ^when  you  are  a  great  prima  donna." 

"One  does  not  like  to  have  their  friends  wait  till 
they  have  succeeded  before  showing  their  apprecia- 
tion." 

"I  do  appreciate  —  your  kindness  —  and  your 
father's.     I — do  not  deserve  it." 

"But  you  do.  Father  said  you  have  unusual  talent. 
He  meant  to  speak  to  you  when  you  came  over." 

"I  ^m  very  sorry." 

"You  do  not  work  nights  ?" 

"!N'o,  but  unfortunately  I  have  no  company  hands," 
he  said,  smiling  bitterly,  holding  up  his  soiled,  blood- 
stained fingers. 


196         3n  ttt  @)i)aOoto  of  (S^oO. 

^^Oh,"  she  gasped,  pity  coming  into  her  eyes. 
"What  makes  you  do  it  r 

"Why  do  we  do  a  great  many  things  we  do  not  like 
to  dor 

"But  you  can  paint.  If  you'd  take  your  pictures  to 
New  York  I'm  sure  you'd  be  able  to  sell  them.  Father 
said  so." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  an  interest  in  my 
work,  but  I  can't  go  to  I^ew  York.  I  may  give  up 
painting." 

"I  can't  understand  why  you  should." 

"My  mother  does  not  approve." 

"How  very  odd.    I'd  think  she'd  be  proud  of  you." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  his  passion  burning  in 
his  eyes.  If  he  could  only  tell  her  everything — how 
he  was  torn  asunder  by  a  conflict  of  emotions  and 
motives.  But  he  could  not  explain  so  that  she  would 
understand — it  would  serve  no  purpose.  In  the  end 
he  must  give  her  up.  Wishing  to  close  the  interview 
that  now  was  becoming  painful,  fearing  that  he  might 
be  tempted  to  some  rash  act,  he  said,  still  looking 
into  her  eyes,  "I  leave  to-morrow." 

"That  means  I  will  see  you  no  more." 

"I  hope  not."  Then  he  fell  silent ;  his  face  became 
ashen  and  drawn. 

"I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  good-bye,"  she  said,  lift- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  ground. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 


3n  tfte  @)|)aDato  of  ©oD*         197 

"I  had  hoped  that  I  might  have  you  paint  me — be- 
fore we  parted?" 

"I  have.  I  am  leaving  the  picture  for  you.  Mr. 
Curry  will  give  it  to  you  when  I  am  g3ne." 

"How  kind  of  you.  But  how  "ould  you  do  it — 
never  to  have  had  a  sitting." 

"I  couldn't  help  doing  it." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garner,  how  puzzling  you  are !" 

"Everything  is  a  puzzle — ambition,  life,  love." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  ?" 

"ISTor  I."  He  at  last  had  forgotten  himself.  Un- 
consciously he  had  moved  nearer.  "But  I  do  know 
I've  seen  nothing  but  you,  waking  and  sleeping,  since 
I  met  you  in  the  woods.  I've  thought  of  you,  dreamed 
of  you,  loved  you  —  yes,  loved  you"  —  he  lifted 
his  arms  as  if  to  enfold  her  within  them,  saw  how 
stained  they  were,  and  dropped  them  shame-faced — 
"till  it's  made  me  foolish,  mad." 

She  gave  a  little  startled  cry.  He  snatched  her 
hand  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it  passionately. 

"Good-bye,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  turning  abruptly 
and  hurrying  away. 


198         M  tfte  SftaDoto  of  &ot. 


PAET   FIVE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

"Why,  hello,  Garner,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
Nichols,  shaking  Marvin's  hand  with  extravagant 
friendliness.  "How  have  you  been  making  it  with  the 
cowboys  and  coyotes?  You  might  have  let  us  hear 
from  you  occasionally  in  the  ^Advocate'  after  that 
spread-eagle  send-off  you  got.  You  must  tell  me 
about  it.  I've  had  a  regular  walk-over  this  year — • 
over  a  hundred  conversions — fifty  dollars  over  on  the 
apportionment.  It's  a  secret,  but  I  know  you'll  keep 
it — the  Elder  has  promised  me  Blossom  Station — 
parsonage — six  hundred  dollars.  I've  learned  a  few 
things  all  right.  If  you  want  to  go  up  you  must  col- 
lect up,  and  a  little  over,"  he  said  exultantly,  edging 
closer,  a  self-important  grimace  on  his  face;  "and 
stand  in  with  the  Elder.  I  had  my  folks  present  him 
with  a  silk  hat  and  goldheaded  cane.  He  knew  who 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  it  did  the  work.  Where 
you  going  to  stop  ?  I'm  up  at  Colonel  Bumby's — he 
met  me  at  the  station  with  a  carriage — makes  me  see 
visions  to  think  of  how  they  feed.    By  the  way,  have 


3n  tfie  SfiaDoto  of  ©oD*         199 

you  heard  the  news  ? — I'm  married.  Just  last  week — 
I'm  on  my  bridal  tour,  as  it  were.  You  remember 
Sally  Hays  ? — you  boarded  with  her  uncle  at  White- 
rock.  She's  now  Mrs.  Xichols.  Since  you  saw  her 
she's  been  left  a  black  land  farm.  You  must  drop 
round  and  see  her.  Get  married — it  pays.  Come,  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  Col.  Bumby  and  the 
brethren." 

They  entered  the  lobby  of  the  church.  They  found 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Hill  the  centre  of  a  group  of  men,  who 
listened  intently  to  a  story  he  was  telling.  He  stood 
with  his  head  thrown  back,  a  fine  light  in  his  eyes,  a 
smile  hovering  about  his  lips  that  betrayed  his  con- 
sciousness of  power.  The  climax  came  and  he  joined 
the  men  in  the  convulsive  laughter  that  greeted  it. 

"Yes,  it's  rich,"  he  said,  his  face  quickly  assuming 
its  usual  expression.  "I  got  that  from  an  Eastern 
guy  out  at  Colorado  Springs."  His  eyes  fell  on  the 
newcomer.  "Why,  how  are  you.  Garner  ?  I'm  glad 
to  see  you.  I  haven't  forgot  that  thrill  you  gave  us 
at  Herman.     How'd  you  find  the  wild  and  woolly  ?" 

Marvin  murmured  some  evasive  commonplaces, 
conscious  of  a  vague  sense  of  gratitude,  for  he  now 
knew  that  his  disgrace  was  not  generally  known.  He 
moved  as  one  in  a  dream ;  uneasy  with  a  secret  dread 
that  these  men  would  suddenly  turn  their  backs  and 
hurry  away,  leaving  him  alone  to  be  derided  by  the 
loquacious  Nichols.    He  was  impatient  to  anticipate 


200        3n  tbe  SfiaDoto  of  ©oD* 

them  and  save  himself  at  least  this  humiliation.  He 
made  some  excuse  and  escaped  into  the  streets.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  hardening  process  going  on  within 
to  meet  the  inevitable  blow  when  it  fell.  Then  his 
mind  underwent  one  of  those  unaccountable  freaks, 
and  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  pictured  Nichols's  change 
of  attitude  when  he  learned  the  truth. 

Two  days  dragged  by,  then  the  long-dreaded  event- 
ful morning  arrived.  The  secretary  rose  and  an- 
nounced the  trial  of  Kev.  Marvin  Garner  that  after- 
noon in  the  First  Baptist  Church.  He  named  the 
Rev.  Stucky  as  counsel  for  the  church,  and  sat  down. 
The  intelligence  fell  upon  the  audience  like  a  shock. 
The  silent  spaces  of  the  church  seemed  suddenly  filled 
with  a  tense  gloom. 

"Is  Brother  Garner  present  ?"  asked  the  Bishop  in 
a  solemn  voice,  looking  out  over  the  blank  faces. 
Marvin  rose,  his  head  lifted  in  defiant  poise,  as  he 
looked  straight  into  the  Bishop's  eyes. 

"I  am,''  he  answered  unfalteringly. 

"Have  you  selected  your  counsel  ?" 

"I  am  innocent.  I  desire  no  counsel,"  he  said, 
sweeping  the  faces  lifted  to  his.  When  he  sat  down 
a  buzz  of  voices  filled  the  room.  The  Bishop  rapped 
for  silence  and  the  proceedings  went  on  as  usual. 
Marvin  shrank  into  his  seat,  feeling  as  isolated  as  if 
he  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe.  A  cynical 
smile  marred  for   a  moment  his   fine  face   as   he 


3n  tbt  ^ftaDoto  of  ©oD*         201 

watched  Nichols  slink  from  his  side.  He  sat  there 
a  long  time;  it  seemed  to  him  days,  weeks,  seeing 
nothing,  hearing  nothing.  At  last  he  was  brought  to 
his  senses  by  a  persistent  tugging  at  his  knee.  He 
glanced  down  and  saw  a  closed  hand  resting  on  it. 
It  opened  slightly  and  he  saw  a  bit  of  paper.  He  took 
it  and  crushed  it  in  his  palm.  When  he  found  an 
opportunity  he  read :  "Get  the  best  counsel  you  can. 
Stucky  will  ruin  you — innocent  or  not.  It  is  his 
boast  never  to  have  been  defeated  in  a  debate  or  trial. 
He'd  wreck  a  dozen  lives  to  make  good  his  boast. 
Take  my  advice  for  God's  sake." 

Marvin  turned  the  paper  and  wrote :  "I  have  done 
no  wrong.  God  is  my  counsel.  If  he  can't  win 
against  Stucky,  I  shall  believe  in  Stucky.  Thank  you 
sincerely."  He  handed  it  to  his  well-wisher  and  took 
a  good  look  at  his  face.  He  could  not  remember  to 
have  seen  him  before,  but  he  felt  sure  that  he  was  a 
layman,  and  in  the  months  to  come,  often  in  hours  of 
blackness,  when  almost  in  despair,  that  face  rose  be- 
fore him  and  kept  him  from  losing  faith  utterly  in 
his  kind. 


$02        3n  tbt  ©fia&oto  of  ©oO* 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  First  Baptist  Church  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
street  where  the  city  and  country  met.  Looking  east, 
miles  of  farm  land  lay  brown  beneath  the  eye,  fretted 
here  and  there  by  the  winding  black  roads.  In  the 
other  direction,  the  street  lifted  in  gradual  slope  to  the 
more  active  part  of  the  town,  and  at  the  point  where 
it  opened  onto  the  square,  the  heads  of  men  and 
horses,  tops  of  buggies,  rims  of  wheels,  moved  in 
bizarre  procession.  As  Marvin  stood  in  front  of  the 
little  church,  he  recalled  the  times  he  had  passed  it 
with  no  intuitions  of  the  enactments  soon  to  take 
place  within.  He  had  rode  by  with  Curry  the  first  day 
of  their  meeting,  and  again  only  three  days  ago  when 
he  had  driven  him  over  for  the  last  time.  And  now 
he  found  himself  trying  to  imagine  the  activities  of 
his  friend  rather  than  conjecturing  the  outcome  of 
the  proceedings  that  concerned  him  so  vitally.  At 
last  he  turned  and  entered  the  building.  Fifteen  or 
twenty  men  eyed  him  curiously  as  he  took  a  seat. 
Nichols,  who  had  managed  to  have  himself  appointed 
clerk,  glanced  at  Marvin  with  a  sneering  look  of  tri- 


3n  tbt  @)J)aDoto  of  <SoD*         203 

nmph.  They  were  waiting  him,  and  Stucky  rose  and 
said: 

^'Let  us  pray."  Marvin  mechanically  got  on  his 
knees.  He  no  longer  felt  any  inclination  to  pray. 
He  even  found  himself  thinking  of  Stucky's  familiar- 
ity with  God  as  mockery.  The  deed  was  done ;  what 
muttering  toward  God  would  change  it  ?  For  all  the 
prayers  that  might  be  said  these  men  would  act  in 
keeping  with  their  enlightenment  and  prejudices.  If 
they  thought  it  immoral  to  paint  a  nude  picture, 
prayer  would  not  make  them  think  otherwise.  And 
the  conviction  grew  upon  him  that  God  was  powerless 
in  the  hands  of  ignorant,  prejudiced  men. 

The  lower  half  of  the  window  had  been  raised  to 
let  in  the  air.  From  his  position  Marvin  could  see 
framed  in  the  opening  a  patch  of  blue  sky  and  hilltops 
miles  away.  As  he  looked  a  wagon  came  to  view  and 
crawled  along  the  glistening  road.  Above  it  a  white 
cloud  floated.  Upon  this  his  eyes  became  fixed  and 
it  resolved  itself  into  a  face.  He  no  longer  heard 
Stucky's  voice  and  was  not  aware  when  it  ceased.  He 
still  knelt,  his  head  bent  toward  the  window,  his  eyes 
on  the  white  cloud,  when  someone  touched  him  on  the 
arm.  He  looked  up  with  a  slight  start  and  resumed 
his  seat.  Stucky  was  regarding  him  with  a  puzzled 
stare. 

The  offending  picture  was  brought  forward  by  an 
assistant.    He  handled  it  in  a  bungling  manner,  and 


204         3tt  tfie  SfiaDDto  of  ©oB* 

Marvin  stepped  across  the  room  and  took  it  from  him. 

"You  have  got  to  have  a  proper  light  on  a  picture/' 
he  said. 

The  eyes  of  the  men  turned  to  the  canvas.  It  was 
plain  they  saw  only  a  naked  woman;  and  a  naked 
woman  meant  only  one  thing  to  them.  Marvin  had 
painted  that  picture ;  that  one  thing  was  in  his  mind, 
was  a  moving  motive.  And  that  one  thing  was  im- 
moral outside  the  license  vouchsafed  iif  marriage, 
therefore  Marvin  was  immoral.    Thus  they  reasoned. 

"Think  of  a  man  holding  that  image  in  his  mind 
during  the  weeks  that  it  took  to  paint  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  preaching  the  gospel,"  said  Stucky,  going 
on  with  his  argument. 

"Who  made  the  human  form.  Brother  Stucky?" 
Marvin  asked  abruptly. 

"Why,  God  Almighty." 

"Then  God  Almighty  is  immoral.    I  only " 

But  Stucky  silenced  him,  ranting  of  blasphemy  and 
irreverance.  Marvin  sank  back,  a  look  of  weary  in- 
difference on  his  face.     He  did  not  open  his  mouth 

again. 

*  *  ^  *  *  * 

"Yes,  you  might  call  it  a  brave  act,  standing  up 
there  protesting  his  innocence  and  refusing  assist- 
ance, but  it  was  foolhardy,  and  like  most  foolhardy 
acts  it  will  cost  him  dear,"  said  Laney,  the  hotel  man, 
addressing   a   coterie   of  men-about-town   who   had 


In  tbt  ©fiaDoto  of  (SoD*        205 

dropped  into  his  office.  Do  I  think  he's  innocent? 
Ain't  no  doubt  he  thinks  so.  Fur's  I  can  learn  it's 
all  a  question  'bout  a  picture  he  painted — a  naked 
woman — an'  of  course  that's  jest  a  matter  of  opinion 
— like  most  questions  of  morality.  Some  set  of  men 
would  congratulate  him  on  producin'  a  work  of  art, 
the  question  of  right  an'  wrong  wouldn't  enter  into 
it;  but  these  parsons  will  make  it  all  a  question  of 
right  an'  wrong,  an'  none  of  art.  Most  of  them  don't 
know  no  more  'bout  art  than  a  hog  about  heaven." 

"Yes,  he  made  a  wrong  play-7-he  set  out  defyin' 
^em,  as  it  were,  to  prove  his  guilt,  an'  they'll  do  it 
jest  to  show  him  they  can." 

"You're  right.  Parsons  air  great  sticklers  fer  their 
reputations — it's  their  stock-in-trade — ^what  people 
think  of  them.  It's  my  idee  if  you  strip  'em  of  their 
cloth  they  ain't  no  different  from  the  rest  of  us.  They 
put  up  a  fine  bluff  with  their  sanctimonious  ways,  but 
if  you'll  scratch  'em  you'll  find  the  same  human  na- 
ture. Then  they're  jest  like  wimin — harder  on  each 
other  than  anybody  else " 

"Yes,  guess  there's  got  to  be  a  good  deal  of  the 
woman  in  a  preacher  fer  him  to  like  his  job.  The 
church  has  got  to  be  mostly  a  matter  of  wimin's  aid 
societies,  entertainments  and  pink  teas,  nowaday,  any- 
how. An'  a  man  that's  all  man  can't  stomick  that 
kind  of  thing  fer  a  steady  job.  !N'ow,  that  feller  Hill 
— he's  a  sharp  one  fer  you.    That  insanity  dcdge  was 


206        3n  tbt  ^ftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

a  fine  trick.  The  preacher  don't  know  no  sin  but 
bein'  found  out — an'  Hill  was  too  slick  fer  'em. 

"Trouble  with  Garner,  he's  green ;  an'  I  guess  it's 
a  case  of  gittin'  on  the  wrong  job.  He'll  not  think  so, 
but  it's  the  best  thing  that  could  'a'  happened.  If 
reports  air  true,  he's  got  a  lot  to  him.  He  regular 
paralized  the  Bishop  an'  the  whole  caboodle  over  at 
Herman  last  conference.  I  heard  a  drummer  tellin' 
'bout  it  He  said  he  never  seen  nothin'  like  it,  an'  it 
was  a  pity  to  let  that  kind  of  talent  go  to  waste " 

"Well,  then,  he'll  likely  go  in  fer  law  after  the  par- 
sons git  through  with  him.  Chances  air  he'll  be  dis- 
trict attorney  er  state  senator  when  the  men  who  con- 
demned him  will  still  be  humpin'  therselves  to  make 
ends  meet  on  a  four-hundred-dollar  circuit.  I've 
knowed  it  to  turn  out  that  way  before.  Though  be 
may  be  one  of  them  visionary  fools  an'  stick  to  his 
picher-making  an'  starve." 

"Well,  he's  considerable  cut  up,  fer  all  his  brave 
way.  Been  walkin'  'bout  yere  like  he  didn't  have  a 
Bpeakin'  acquaintance  in  the  world;  an'  day  before 
yesterday  Miss  More,  the  banker's  daughter,  ridin' 
him  roun'  in  her  buggy,  showin'  him  off  proud." 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  of  the  world." 

"Why,  if  I  hadn't  taken  him  in,  he'd  had  to  camp 
on  the  street.  Think  of  it — all  because  he  painted  a 
naked  woman — an'  they  call  that  Christian!" 

"Pore  devil." 


In  tfte  e)j)aDoto  of  ©oD*         207 

"Lucky  devil,  you  better  say.  It'll  be  the  makin' 
of  him,  if  the  stuff's  in  him.  Mark  my  word,  you 
can't  down  a  man  fer  long  that  ought'n  to  be  down. 
That's  my  observation." 

"But  he  ain't  gettin'  a  square  deal.  Hill's  the  man 
to  stick,  if  they've  got  blood  in  their  eye." 

"Bein'  in  the  hotel  bizness,  I've  learned  a  lot  'bout 
human  nature,  an'  if  young  Garner  ain't  a  gentleman 
I  ain't  never  seen  one." 

"  'Tain't  a  matter  of  bein'  a  gentleman ;  it's  a 
matter  of  opinion.  An'  knowin'  the  men — ^the  opin- 
ion will  be  agin  him." 


208        %n  tU  ^baDotu  of  ($00. 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  afternoon  business  dragged  wearily.  To  Mar- 
vin it  seemed  interminable  as  he  sat  alone,  outwardly 
calm,  meeting  stoically  the  curious,  condemning,  pity- 
ing eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him  from  time  to 
time.  The  sun  had  already  found  the  western  win- 
dows and  poured  a  broadside  through  the  stained- 
glass  upon  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  when  Nichols 
stepped  upon  the  platform  and  passed  a  paper  to  the 
Bishop.  An  expectant  hush  fell  upon  the  house.  All 
seemed  to  feel  what  was  imminent.  Already  there 
was  a  craning  of  heads  for  a  better  view  of  the  of- 
fender. The  Bishop  read  in  a  calm,  solemn  voice: 
"We  the  jury  find  Marvin  Garner  guilty  as  charged.'' 
The  sheet  fell  from  his  hand,  and  his  head  dropped 
forward  thoughtfully  as  if  he  prayed  for  the  unfor- 
tunate youth. 

Marvin  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  his  face  white  with 
suppressed  emotion.  "Bishop,  I  am  as  innocent  as 
you "  he  began  in  a  tense,  tremulous  voice. 

Stucky  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  to  stop  the  speaker ; 
but  Marvin  turned  toward  him,  a  dominating  light 
flashing  in  his  eyes.     "Stucky,  sit  down/'  he  com- 


In  tbt  ^gaooui  of  &oh.        209 

manded  sharply.  Stucky  staggered  as  if  struck  in 
the  face,  and,  staring  in  impotent  astonishment, 
dropped  into  his  seat. 

"That's  all  I  have  to  say,"  Marvin  added  calmly, 
and  picking  up  his  hat  walked  proudly  from  the  room. 
Not  a  soul  stirred  till  his  form  had  vanished;  then  a 
woman  sobbed  shrilly.  Many  heads  bowed  in  prayer. 
Could  Marvin  have  known  of  the  hearts  that  went  out 
to  him  helplessly  he  would  have  been  moved  to  tears 
— but  he  did  not  know. 

He  plunged  into  the  sunlight  scarcely  conscious  of 
his  movements,  hurried  on  blindly,  till  it  seemed  to 
him  years  had  rolled  by  since  he  faced  the  staring 
eyes  of  the  throng.  A  great  heaviness  weighed  him 
down.  He  could  scarcely  drag  his  feet.  There  was 
a  wild  turmoil  in  his  brain.  At  length  he  found  him- 
self in  a  wide  country  lane,  staring  into  a  red,  sinister 
sunset.  Involuntarily  he  began  to  pray;  checked 
himself;  then,  still  gazing  into  the  sky,  he  shook  his 
clenched  fist  toward  it:  "God,"  he  shouted  vehe- 
mently, "damn  you !  see  what  you  have  done.  Damn 
to  hell  such  a  God !"  He  broke  into  incoherent  laugh- 
ter, crying,  "Fool,  there  is  no  God;  it's  all  a  lie,  a 
lie !"  Then  lifting  his  arm,  as  if  in  defiance,  he  ex- 
claimed: "Hear  me,  God  or  devil,  whatever  you  be, 
from  this  day  forth,  forever,  I  defy  you;  do  your 
damnedest,  I  shall  rule  my  own  life!     God  damn 

you!" 


210         3n  tht  ©ftaDoto  of  (5oD* 

He  tottered  to  a  fallen  log,  overcome,  weak  and 
limp  from  sheer  strength  of  his  passion.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  and  groaned.  Life  seemed  too 
much  for  him.  He  had  a  vague  feeling  that  he  was 
not  equal  to  the  cruel  world  in  which  he  found  him- 
self, in  which  he  knew  he  must  live.  Deep  in  his 
soul  he  cried  out  that  he  might  be  like  other  men. 
He  found  himself  wishing  that  he  were  Curry,  Hill, 
anyone  but  himself. 

When  he  lifted  his  face  the  sun  had  gone  down ;  a 
pale  afterglow  lingered  on  the  heavens,  and  shadows 
lay  thick  on  field  and  wood.  As  he  stared  into  the 
night,  he  was  startled  by  the  report  of  a  gun  near  at 
hand.  Presently  a  wounded  rabbit  crawled  beneath 
the  fence  into  the  road,  dragging  a  broken  leg.  With 
a  quick  glance  around  to  make  sure  it  had  escaped 
the  enemy,  it  began  to  apply  the  only  surgery  it  knew 
— ^gnawing  at  the  tendon  that  held  the  dangling  limb. 
Suddenly  it  ceased,  became  as  rigid  as  a  bit  of  grey 
stone,  its  eyes  points  of  wild  light.  It  had  become 
conscious  of  another  presence,  and  hobbled  into  the 
brush.  The  wounded  rabbit  brought  to  Marvin's  mind 
by  some  mysterious  association  of  ideas  thoughts  of 
his  mother — the  one  had  a  broken  leg,  the  other  would 
have  a  broken  heart,  and  there  was  no  God  to  heal 
either.  He  rose  with  a  quick  motion  and  turned  to- 
ward the  town.  He  plunged  blindly  along  through 
the  night,  unseeing,  on  and  on,  no  longer  conscious  of 


3n  tfie  ©baDDto  of  ©otr*         211 

time  or  place.  He  walked  as  one  walks  in  a  dream. 
Then  he  became  vaguely  aware  of  dim  lights  blinking 
about  him  in  the  dark,  that  someone  approached, 
walked  by  his  side,  clutched  his  arm,  was  addressing 
him. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Modest.    Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

He  stopped  and  stared  at  the  speaker,  dazed.  Then 
like  a  memory-ghost  of  the  past  the  face  came  back 
to  him. 

"You — ^you're  Uncle  Joe's  girl,"  he  mumbled. 

"How  good  of  you  to  remember  me,  you  timid 
dear,"  she  said,  hurrying  him  along  the  street.  They 
entered  the  house  with  the  red  transom,  and  she  led 
him  to  her  room.  She  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  and, 
pouring  out  a  glass,  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"You  don't  know  who  I  am  ?"  he  said,  looking  into 
her  face  as  if  she  were  an  apparition  or  the  creature 
of  a  bad  dream. 

"Why,  yes,  you're  Uncle  Joe's  frien*.  He  tol'  me 
'bout  you — you  make  pichers." 

"That's  all  he  knew — I  was  a  preacher  urtil  to- 
day.    I'm  nothing  now " 

"Oh,  what  you  givin'  me  ?" 

"But  it's  true.  Didn't  you  see  it  in  the  papers — 
about  Garner?" 

"But  you  ain't  Garner  ?" 

"But  I  am." 

"Oh,  come  off ;  you  can't  fool  me." 


212        3n  tbt  S>ftaDato  of  ©oD* 

"But  I  am — I  tell  you  I  am."  He  drew  a  letter 
from  his  pocket — his  mother's  letter.  "Read  it,"  he 
said,  thrusting  it  into  her  hand. 

"Rev.  Marvin  Garner,"  she  read.  Then  she  looked 
at  him,  her  cheeks  suddenly  pale.  "True  you'r 
Brother  Garner  ?"  she  asked  soberly. 

"Of  course — who  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

She  rose  up  quickly  and  gazed  down  at  him,  a  fine 
pity  coming  onto  her  face.  "Then  you  must  go.  I 
use'  to  be  a  shoutin'  Methodist  myself.  Yes,  you 
must  git  out — this  ain't  no  place  fer  you  ?  Run  like 
you  did  before.  Oh,  it's  a  shame  fer  me  to  'a'  brought 
you  yere."  She  caught  hold  of  him  and  led  him  to 
the  door.  Seizing  his  hand,  she  kissed  it  impulsively. 
You'r  good — good — I'm  awful  sorry — but  nobody'U 
ever  know — ^good-bye,"  and  she  closed  the  door. 


In  tbt  @)i)aDota)  of  <£^oD«        213 


CHAPTER   IV. 

As  Marvin  splashed  along  the  country  lane  through 
a  drizzling  rain  that  hung  a  grey  wall  about  him,  blot- 
ting out  the  distant  view,  his  mind  was  actively  pro- 
jecting itself  into  the  future.  Occasionally  there  rose 
before  him  visions  of  wealth,  of  fame,  of  love.  Then 
he  would  call  himself  a  fool  to  entertain  such  wild 
thoughts  as  he  faced  the  facts  of  his  life — disgraced, 
penniless,  a  book  agent,  hawking  his  wares  from  house 
to  house.  He  felt  himself  almost  a  vagabond.  Reali- 
ties sobered  him,  and  yet  when  soberest,  deep  in  his 
soul  there  lived  the  dream.  Was  there  something  in 
the  texture  of  the  soul  that  matched  the  dream  ?  Vi- 
sions of  a  palace  never  came  to  a  clod.  Years  after- 
ward he  recalled  these  visions  and  wondered  if  the 
soul  has  power  to  run  ahead  of  life  and  bring  back 
truthful  intuitions,  prescient  messages  from  the 
future. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  gone  calmly  and  thought- 
fully over  his  religious  beliefs  and  found  a  satisfying 
adjustment.  God  had  become  a  great,  impersonal 
fixed  force ;  the  personification  of  good,  as  the  devil 
was  of  evil.     Prayer  was  a  rehearsing  of  the  souFs 


214         3n  tfte  SiftaDoto  of  (Sou, 

desires  and  hopes  to  itself ;  the  object  of  it  mattered 
nothing,  the  faith  of  the  individual  everything.  The 
same  results  would  follow  if  one  prayed  with  equal 
faith  to  a  stone,  the  sun  or  a  miraculously  born  pian. 
So  he  found  himself  continuing  to  pray  when  the 
impulse  was  strong  upon  him ;  poured  out  his  soul  to 
the  sky,  the  landscape,  the  great  force  in  and  behind 
it  all;  breathed  often  his  mother's  name  in  fervent 
petitions.  He  recognized  that  it  all  was  the  impulse 
of  a  superstitious  atavism  that  had  its  source  in  some 
far-oif  savage  ancestor.  Yet  in  his  way  he  continued 
to  pray  and  laugh  at  his  prayers.  Heaven  was  simply 
a  state  of  the  soul,  the  result  of  its  faithfulness  to 
its  highest  ideals.  As  to  the  hereafter  he  troubled 
little.  He  came  to  have  no  more  fear  of  death  than  of 
sleep.  He  would  fight  it  because  there  was  work  he 
wanted  it  to  do,  because  he  loved  life.  But  he  be- 
lieved his  death  would  mean  no  more  than  the  death 
of  a  flower.  From  the  seed  scattered  on  the  wind  it 
would  live  again  in  a  hundred  flowers ;  so  he  would 
live  again  in  the  lives  of  others — through  his  work, 
his  influence.  He  would  be  conscious  of  it  no  more 
than  the  dead  flower  would  recognize  itself  in  the 
blossoming  offspring.  Life  was  the  important  thing. 
Christ  he  believed  in  as  a  great  and  good  man,  and  he 
prayed  to  him  in  the  same  way  that  he  prayed  to  his 
ovni  soul,  and  sought  to  mold  his  character  in  the 
light  of  his  ethics.     Keligion  was  no  longer  to  him 


3n  tfie  SiftaDoto  of  <5oD^         215 

an  object  in  itself ;  was  valuable  only  as  it  affected  the 
life  for  good.  It  was  very  simple,  very  inconsistent 
perhaps,  but  he  found  it  very  satisfying  and  it 
brought  him  great  peace  of  mind.  He  realized  that 
his  beliefs  were  largely  the  product  of  his  tempera- 
ment and  his  experiences;  and  it  seemed  as  sensible 
to  him  to  seek  to  convert  everyone  to  his  artistic  ideals 
as  to  his  peculiar  faith.  One's  religion  was  a  result 
of  one's  self  plus  early  influences  and  life's  expe- 
riences. 

Several  months  had  passed  when  he  stopped  at  a 
cross-road  post  ofiice  to  inquire  for  mail.  Among  the 
letters  that  had  been  forwarded  from  place  to  place, 
was  one  some  days  old.  It  read:  "Mother  seriously 
ill.  Come  home  at  once."  He  left  his  prospectus  and 
books  with  the  postmaster  and  turned  his  horse  to- 
ward Diamond,  anxious,  fearful.  Two  nights  later, 
beneath  a  pale  winter  afterglow,  he  drove  into  the 
village.  There  was  a  look  of  ragged  desolation  about 
the  crude  clustered  houses  that  saddened  him. 
Devil's  Backbone  lifted  in  sinister  aspect  against  the 
dun  sky.  The  scene  brought  to  his  mind  only  the 
unhappy  incidents  lived  in  sight  of  it.  He  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  having  to  bury  himself  here;  was 
filled  with  pity  as  he  imagined  the  lonely  life  his 
parents  must  live,  bowed  down  to  the  earth  with  the 
humiliation  of  his  disgrace.  A  fierce  resentment 
flared  up  in  his  bosom.    Why  should  he  be  disgraced  ? 


216        in  tht  ^!)aliota  of  &oD. 

Why  should  his  parents  suffer?  Because  of  a  blind 
superstitious  belief  that  a  God  was  directing  their 
lives.  It  was  all  a  lie.  As  well  teach  that  He  pur- 
posely let  an  idiot  child  be  born  of  a  drunken  em- 
brace; that  He  crippled  innocent  children  and  sent 
loathsome  diseases  to  the  helpless  that  they  might  be 
brought  to  accept  salvation  as  laid  down  in  some  one 
of  the  thousand  and  one  creeds.  "Ignorance,  super- 
stition," he  cried  in  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

He  drove  his  horse  into  the  barn  and  cared  for  him, 
for  he  was  cruelly  fagged  from  the  forced  trip.  He 
then  walked  slowly  to  the  house,  drawing  back  from 
the  meeting  he  so  anxiously  desired.  He  stood  hesi- 
tating at  the  door,  gazing  through  the  window  into  the 
lighted  room.  His  father  and  Molly  moved  back  and 
forth  to  the  bedside  of  his  mother.  Her  face  was 
turned  away,  and  he  could  see  only  the  shrunken  out- 
line beneath  the  sheets.  If  his  mother  should  die? 
He  felt  a  keen  sense  of  remorse  that  his  pride  had 
held  him  aloof  from  her  as  he  remembered  her  letters 
breathing  an  unshaken  faith  in  him  and  pathetic  with 
an  unworded  appeal  for  his  return.  A  sudden  fear 
seized  upon  him,  and  he  hurried  in. 

His  father  greeted  him  emotionlessly. 

"Son,"  he  said  in  a  weak,  unnatural  voice,  "I  was 
afraid  you  would  be  too  late."  There  was  a  haggard, 
hopeless  look  on  his  face ;  he  moved  with  a  weariness 
that  filled  Marvin  with  apprehension.     He  too  must 


}n  tU  ^aaoki  of  (Son,        217 

be  ill.  It  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  he  had  not  been 
the  greatest  sufferer.  But  there  was  no  reproach  in 
his  father's  voice  or  manner,  no  restraint,  no  wel- 
come ;  a  blighting  indifference  seemed  to  have  settled 
on  his  faculties. 

There  was  a  faint  cry  from  the  bed,  and  his  mother 
lifted  a  thin,  trembling  hand  toward  him. 

Marvin  stepped  to  her  side  and  stood  dumb  as  he 
looked  into  the  wasted  face  with  the  sad,  wistful, 
burning  eyes  lifted  to  his.  He  knelt  and  kissed  the 
white  forehead,  pressed  the  cold  fingers  between  his 
palms,  then  buried  his  face  in  the  quilts  and  sobbed. 
He  no  longer  sought  to  reason  or  think — felt  himself 
only  a  guilty  thing.  What  was  art  ?  what  did  happi- 
ness signify  now  that  he  saw  his  mother  slipping 
away — the  only  being  who  had  never  doubted  him — 
who  believed  in  him,  loved  him.  If  he  had  only  died 
when  he  was  a  babe — better  that  than  to  have  wrought 
this  ruin.    Oh,  the  futility  of  regret ! 

''Son,  I  knew  you'd  come,"  whispered  his  mother. 
"I  prayed  God — to  spare  my  life — till  you  came — he 
is  so  good" — She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  exhausted, 
struggling  for  breath.  His  father  sat  at  the  window 
and  stared  out  blankly  into  the  night,  his  gaunt  form 
drooping  forlornly.  Marvin  recalled  the  time  he  had 
returned  with  his  mother  from  conference — remem- 
bered how  proud  his  father  was— how  he  prophesied 


218         3n  tfte  »l)aDoto  of  (SJoD* 

he  would  some  day  be  a  bishop — now,  he  had  brought 
him  to  this. 

"God  is  so  good,"  repeated  his  mother,  her  hand 
fluttering  in  his  like  a  weak,  wounded  bird,  "to  bring 
you  back  to  me." 

"Yes,  mother." 

She  gave  him  an  ineffable  look,  a  look  that  is  born 
only  of  a  mother's  love,  a  feeble  smile  flitting  on  her 
face. 

"Son,  I  want  you  to  pray  for  me." 

"No,  no,  mother,"  he  cried,  shrinking  as  from  a 
blow.  "I'm  not  worthy,  I'm  not  worthy — you  should 
pray  for  me,  dear  mother,"  he  protested. 

"Son,  for  mamma,"  she  insisted  weakly. 

His  soul  cried  out  against  it.  He  felt  that  it  would 
be  an  irreverent  deception.  Anything  but  this — but 
he  must — his  mother  must  never  know.  She  must 
die  in  peace. 

His  father  knelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  Aunt 
Molly  threw  herself  face  downward  on  the  floor  and 
blubbered  dolefully.  Marvin,  still  holding  his  moth- 
er's hand,  began  to  pray  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice. 
Calling  up  in  his  mind  the  image  of  the  Christ  as  he 
was  wont  to  do  in  the  days  of  his  faith,  he  repeated 
some  simple  petitions.  When  the  conventional  amen 
was  said  and  he  looked  into  his  mother's  face  it  shone 
as  if  she  looked  upon  the  invisible. 

"Thank  you,  son — God  is  so  good.    He  has  brought 


3tt  tfie  SifiaDoto  of  ©oD.         219 

you  back  to  me — with  the  old  faith.  Son,  God  has 
great  things — in  store  for  you — he  revealed  it  all  to 

me — in  a  vision "    Her  eyes  closed,  and  a  smile 

illuminated  her  face  at  the  memory  of  the  vision. 
"I  saw  you,  son,  honored,  loved,  happy — the  multi- 
tude thronged  you — like  the  time  at  conference.  Be 
faithful,  son — you  pray  so  beautiful — ^voice  like  an 
angel — God  bless  you — my  precious  son."  She  lay 
back  on  the  pillows,  the  smile  still  hovering  on  her 
face,  and  soon  fell  asleep.  His  father  continued  to 
kneel  at  the  bed.  How  worn  and  exhausted  he  must 
be  with  his  vigils.  Marvin  felt  a  great  yearning  to- 
ward the  father  he  had  never  known.  If  he  could 
only  in  some  way  assure  him  of  his  love,  comfort  him. 
He  stepped  to  his  side  and  touchel  him. 

^^Father,''  he  said  gently,  "you  had  better  lie  down. 
I'll  sit  up  with  mother."  He  helped  him  to  his  feet, 
where  he  stood  tottering,  looking  into  the  other's  face, 
a  strange  look  of  tenderness  coming  onto  his  own. 
*^Son,  I've  been  sick — your  mother  doesn't  know — 
help  me  to  bed — I'm  so  tired."  Aunt  Molly  came 
and  they  laid  him  by  his  sleeping  wife. 

"Son,"  he  whispered,  reaching  out  for  his  hand, 
"Forgive  me.     I  thought  you  guilty  —  sins  of  the 

father  —  you   understand  —  forgive   me "      He 

turned  his  face  toward  the  wife  of  his  young  man- 
hood, the  wife  of  his  old  age,  and,  slipping  his  hand 
softly,  tremblingly  to  her  bosom,  closed  his  eyes. 


220         3n  tfte  ^ftaDoto  of  <SJoD* 

Marvin  dismissed  Molly,  dimmed  the  light  and  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Often  during  the  night 
he  looked  long  upon  the  silent  forms — the  beings  who 
had  given  him  life — wondered  and  questioned.  It 
was  a  great  mystery.  The  irony  of  life.  The  cruelty 
of  life. 

A  few  days  later  he  laid  his  parents  away,  side  by 
side,  in  the  little  hillside  graveyard  in  the  shadow  of 
Devil's  Backbone.  Then  he  sold  the  store  and  lands 
for  a  few  thousand  dollars,  deeded  the  house  and  plot 
to  Aunt  Molly,  and  left  for  New  York. 


3n  tfte  ®f)aDoUi  of  ©oD*         221 


PAKT    SIX. 

CHAPTER   I. 

It  was  a  sultry  morning  in  late  June.  Marvin 
Garner  sat  in  a  little  stuffy  hall-bedroom  of  a  Four- 
teenth Street  rooming-house,  gazing  abstractly  out  a 
back  window  into  a  disreputable  court.  Across  it, 
from  a  window  in  which  set  a  dingy  flowerpot  with  a 
dead  geranium,  a  frowsy-headed  woman,  bare-armed, 
was  putting  out  her  wash,  the  pulley  screaking  dis- 
mally as  she  drew  in  the  clothesline.  In  a  patch  of 
sunlight  that  stole  into  the  depths  of  the  backyard 
canyon,  a  lone  parrot  sat  preening  its  bedraggled 
plumage  and  making  foolish  gratuitous  remarks.  As 
Marvin's  eye  took  in  these  sundry  objects,  a  dirty, 
homeless  cat  crept  cautiously  into  view,  and  eyed  the 
bird  furtively.  It  had  espied  some  crumbs  dropped 
beneath  the  cage  and  stole  toward  the  tempting  mor- 
sels. At  last  it  pounced  upon  them  and  fled  terror- 
stricken  as  Polly  burst  into  blasphemous  impreca- 
tions. Marvin  turned  away  in  disgust.  The  image 
of  the  forlorn  cat  stuck  in  his  imagination.     In  a 


222         3n  tfie  ©ftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

confused  way  he  associated  it  with  himself  in  his 
present  friendless  isolation. 

He  had  now  been  in  New  York  over  three  years, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  just  as  far  from  the 
realization  of  his  ambitions  as  when  he  left  the  west- 
ern prairies.    Ilis  former  experience  in  the  city  as  a 
student  and  his  later  ones  in  the  West  had  engendered 
in  him  a  distrust  of  his  kind.    Because  of  this  he  had 
put  forth  no  efforts  to  make  friends.     Finding  upon 
his  arrival  that  it  was  difficult  to  get  interested  again 
in  his  work,  he  began  to  drift  about  the  city  seeking 
to  kill  time  and  forget  himself  in  visiting  places  of 
interest  and  amusement.    But  after  a  while  this  grew 
monotonous  and  he  came  to  live  more  and  more  within 
himself,    often   sitting   for   hours   staring   into   the 
gloomy  backyard.    Then  he  forced  himself  to  take  up 
his  painting.     But  his  interest  was  intermittent  and 
often  for  days  he  was  plunged  into  moods  of  black 
despair.     He  was  very  lonely  and  the  atmosphere  of 
the  city  oppressed  and  bewildered  him.     Often  he 
asked  himself  why  he  remained,   seeking  to  blind 
himself  to  the  hope  he  still  cherished.     Fortunately 
he  had  sufficient  funds,  with  economy,  to  keep  him  a 
few  years  longer,  and  he  was  spared  uneasiness  for 
the  present  on  that  score.    He  even  felt  confident  in 
his  happier  moods  that  before  that  time  he  would 
succeed  in  finding  recognition  and  a  market.     Then 
he  became  interested  in  the  art  galleries  and  exhibits, 


In  tbt  SftaBoto  of  &oh.        223 

and  the  old  enthusiasm  slowly  returned.  He  began  a 
careful  study  of  the  noted  paintings  of  all  schools, 
searching  for  the  distinctive  note  that  had  given  them 
universal  interest.  In  the  end  he  came  to  his  own 
conclusions.  It  was  the  individuality,  originality,  of 
the  artist  that  counted.  They  had  seen  things  in  a 
new  light,  expressed  it  in  a  new  way.  He  was  en- 
couraged, for  he  realized  that  he  could  never  succeed 
in  painting  pictures  like  the  ones  he  studied.  He 
lacked  the  imitative  faculty;  he  must  paint  in  his 
own  way ;  put  in  the  canvas  what  he  saw  and  felt,  if 
then  it  did  not  make  an  appeal  he  knew  he  must  fail. 
He  got  out  his  pictures  and  began  to  go  over  them 
carefully,  profiting  by  the  new  knowledge  he  had 
gained  in  his  studies.  Then  in  a  confident  mood  one 
day  he  wrapped  up  "God  in  the  Blizzard"  and  set  out 
with  it  under  his  arm  to  the  nearest  art  dealer.  The 
proprietor  looked  it  over  with  indifferent  interest. 

"^o;  I  woidd  not  care  to  buy  it,"  he  said  with 
friendly  finality. 

Marvin  stood  a  moment  hesitating,  then  picked  up 
the  picture  and  turned  away — it  seemed  to  him  that 
it  was  the  only  thing  he  could  do — when  Mr.  Sw^artz 
asked  casually,  "How  much  did  you  want  for  it?" 
Marvin  remembered  the  canvas  he  had  sold  to  Mr. 
Laramore,  one  not  so  large  nor  as  good.  "Would 
fifty  dollars  be  too  much  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  you  don't  put  a  cheap  valuation  on  your 


224        In  tht  ^i)atioto  of  <a^oti. 

art,"  the  other  said,  laughing.  "Why,  I  couldn't  sell 
it  for  half  of  that." 

"Isn't  it  worth  it  ?" 

"!N"ot  with  that  name  on  it." 

With  a  keen  sense  of  disappointment  Marvin 
turned  again  to  the  door. 

"If  you  care  to  leave  it  here  I'll  be  glad  to  sell  it 
for  you,  if  I  have  an  offer.  Though  that  isn't  likely," 
said  the  dealer  kindly.  "I'd  advise  you  to  try  the 
Academy.  If  they'll  admit  it  to  their  exhibit  it  might 
help  you." 

Marvin  inquired  as  to  the  necessary  steps  to  be 
taken  in  compassing  that  end,  and  returned  to  his 
room.  A  few  weeks  later  he  received  a  note  from 
the  Academy  informing  him  that  his  picture  had  been 
rejected.  "You  seem  to  see  vividly,"  the  note  ran, 
"and  you  have  temperament,  but  your  work  is  crude, 
unconventional,  devoid  of  technic.  We  would  advise 
a  few  years  study  in  a  good  art  school." 

With  a  determination  to  succeed  in  spite  of  Acad- 
emies and  art  schools,  Marvin  went  after  ^'God  in  the 
Blizzard"  and  started  forth  again.  After  visiting 
three  or  four  places  without  receiving  any  encourage- 
ment, he  was  directed  to  a  new  gallery  on  Fifth  Av- 
enue that  made  a  specialty  of  exhibits  of  American 
art.  Here  they  agreed  to  hang  his  picture.  Some 
weeks  passed,  and  he  waited  anxiously,  hoping,  yet 
dreading,  to  see  what  comment  the  art  columns  of  the 


In  tht  ^fiaDoto  of  aoO.        225 

newspapers  would  give  it.  But  he  looked  in  vain. 
They  had  not  seen  his  picture,  or  had  not  considered 
it  worthy  a  notice. 

Marvin  turned  at  last  from  the  survey  of  the  un- 
sightly court  and  glanced  wearily  about  his  close 
quarters.  It  was  little  better  than  Curry's  attic. 
There  was  a  cot-bed,  a  dilapidated  washstand  and  a 
table  cluttered  with  paint  brushes.  Against  the  wall 
was  propped  an  easel  with  a  half-finished  picture. 
This  Marvin's  eye  rested  on  presently  and  he  studied 
it  with  growing  dissatisfaction.  He  was  conscious 
of  an  impulse  to  toss  it  out  of  the  window  and  be  done 
with  art.  He  was  a  fool  to  waste  his  time  and  money 
with  the  odds  so  heavily  against  him. 

There  was  a  timid  knock  at  the  door.  He  opened 
it  and  faced  liis  landlady.  She  handed  him  a  letter 
and  vanished  down  the  shadowy  stairway.  He  re- 
turned to  the  cane-bottomed  chair  and  looked  the 
envelope  over  curiously.  It  had  been  forwarded  from 
Mr.  Donald's,  the  art  dealer.  It  was  seldom  he  re- 
ceived a  letter,  and  as  he  tore  it  open  he  wondered 
what  it  could  mean.    He  read : 

''My  dear  Mr.  Garner:  The  merits  of  a  picture 
rarely  arouse  me  to  such  enthusiasm  as  to  inspire  me 
to  write  the  artist.  But  that  is  exactly  what  I  am 
doing,  and  exactly  what  your  picture  did.  Your  strik- 
ing originality  deeply  impressed  me  and  I  want  you 
to  know  it,  and  that  you  have  at  least  one  very  sin- 


226         Un  tfte  g)l)aDDto  of  (Son* 

cere  admirer  of  your  art.  I  have  been  in  the  West 
and  your  picture  makes  one  feel  that  he  stands  on 
one  of  those  vast  plains  and  beholds  the  awful  bliz- 
zard sweep  in  fury  across  its  face.  The  truthful 
realism  is  wonderful — ^the  pathetic,  tragic  suffering 
of  the  dumb  mother  and  calf.  Of  course  I  don't  know 
to  whom  I  am  writing,  perhaps  an  artist  of  fame 
whose  work  I  have  just  happened  upon,  but  I  find 
myself  imagining  you  a  person  native  to  the  West, 
possessed  of  dreams  great  and  limitless  as  the  prai- 
ries.   All  the  same,  I  am  an  ardent  admirer. 

''Sincerely, 

"Mabel  Wondells." 

Marvin's  first  thought  upon  reading  the  letter  was 
that  it  was  the  impulsive  effusions  of  some  impres- 
sionable girl ;  but  nevertheless  he  was  conscious  of  a 
warm  glow  of  satisfaction.  His  soul  was  athirst  for 
some  genuine  expression  of  appreciation.  And  he 
felt  these  words  to  be  sincere,  if  ill-judged  and  unim- 
portant as  a  criticism  of  the  merits  of  his  picture. 
But  they  came  like  a  gentle  shower  upon  ground  long 
parched  by  continued  drought.  He  drank  them  in  and 
was  grateful,  though  conscious  that  they  meant  little 
in  answering  the  needs  and  expectations  of  his  soul. 
He  was  encouraged.  There  came  to  him  a  return  of 
the  old  buoyant  hopefulness.  He  sat  down  while  the 
mood  was  on  him  and  wrote ; 


In  tbt  8)i)aDoto  of  ©oD*         227 

"Dear  Miss  Wondells:  I  thank  you  heartily  for 
your  kind  note.  Of  course  I  think  my  pictures  have 
merit  or  I  would  not  paint  them,  but  I  am  finding  it 
difficult  to  convince  others.  But  your  appreciation  is 
very  encouraging.  If  you  like  the  ^Blizzard'  why  not 
others  ?  I  am  going  to  begin  work  with  new  enthu- 
siasm, so  you  see  how  your  few  lines  helped  me.  Yes ; 
I  am  of  the  West,  and  I  suppose  I  have  my  dreams — 
who  hasn't  ? 

"I  hope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  you 
personally  sometime  for  your  kind  words. 

"Truly, 
'^Marvin  Gakner." 

Marvin  now  began  the  most  ambitious  canvas  he 
had  undertaken.  The  half-heartedness  that  had  char- 
acterized his  efforts  since  coming  to  the  city  dropped 
from  him.  He  became  absorbed  in  his  work — forgot 
that  he  was  in  the  city ;  forgot  the  picture  that  hung 
in  the  gallery,  even  forgot  his  meals.  Then  after 
some  weeks  he  called  on  the  dealer  and  showed  the 
letter  he  had  received,  and  learned  that  others  had 
spoken  favorably  of  his  canvas.  Mr.  Donald  sug- 
gested that  he  put  on  exhibition  all  his  pictures,  to 
which  he  readily  agi'eed.  He  then  returned  to  the 
canvas,  "At  the  Edge  of  the  Prairie,"  and  for  some 
weeks  painted  steadily.  Then  came  a  note  from  Mr. 
Donald  asking  him  to  call.     Marvin  wrote  him  that 


228         3n  tbe  S>&aDoto  of  ©oD* 

he  would  come  down  in  a  few  days,  and  returned  to 
his  work.  Nearly  a  month  slipped  by  when  a  second 
note  came  from  the  dealer.  *^At  the  Edge  of  the 
Prairie"  was  nearly  completed.  He  put  down  his 
brush,  jumped  on  a  car  and  was  soon  walking  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  As  he  approached  the  art  store,  he 
was  attracted  by  a  group  of  men  standing  before  a 
picture  in  the  window.  He  joined  them  and  found 
that  it  was  his  "Spring"  that  held  their  attention. 
The  onlookers  were  strangers  to  each  other  and  there 
was  little  comment,  but  Marvin  scanning  their  faces 
thought  he  saw  on  them  unequivocal  approval.  One 
portly,  well-dressed  gentleman  in  turning  away  re- 
marked to  his  neighbor,  "Splendid  work."  Two 
young  men  pushed  their  way  into  the  group.  "Here 
it  is.  I  want  your  opinion  of  it.  I  never  heard  of 
the  artist,  but  if  I'm  any  judge  of  art  everybody  will 
hear  of  him  before  long."  The  other  scanned  the  pic- 
ture critically,  but  he  was  evidently  disappointed. 
"Oh,  you  are  always  making  finds.  It's  like  the 
others  —  just  a  trick  of  coloring.  Seems  rather 
crude " 

"But  I  tell  you  it's  original — it's  great.  Wl;at  do 
you  think  of  it  ?"  he  asked,  appealing  to  Marvin,  no- 
ticing that  he  listened  to  their  conversation. 

"Oh,  I  rather  like  it,  but  your  friend  is  right — it's 
crude." 

"Well,  crude  or  not,  it  holds  you — that's  the  main 


3n  tfie  S)6aDoto  of  (SoD*         229 

thing.  Yes,  sir,  I  predict  the  artist  will  make  a  hit — 
he  deserves  it." 

"Pshaw,  Brown,  geniuses  would  be  as  plentiful  as 
motormen  if  your  judgment  meant  anything."  They 
turned  away  and  Marvin  entered  the  gallery.  Mr, 
Donald  came  toward  him,  smiling  blandly,  and  ex- 
tended his  hand.  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Garner. 
.Where  have  you  been  keeping  yourself  ?" 

"IVe  been  painting — I  forgot  about  your  note." 

"Well,  it's  not  serious.  I  wanted  to  congratulate 
you." 

Then  Marvin  learned  that  five  of  his  pictures  had 
been  sold.  One  gentleman  had  bought  three,  but  he 
wished  his  name  withheld,  and  had  asked  to  be  noti- 
fied as  soon  as  a  new  canvas  was  offered  for  sale. 

Mr.  Donald  had  filed  the  notices  and  criticisms. 
These  he  now  put  into  the  artist's  hand.  It  would  be 
futile  to  try  to  express  the  gratification  with  which 
they  were  read,  and  unnecessary  to  reproduce  them 
here.  A  few  spoke  of  the  pictures  as  being  the 
work  of  a  beginner;  others  referred  to  them  as 
being  rather  promising  efforts,  but  a  few  accorded 
to  them  high  praise.    We  quote  from  one  of  the  best : 

"Mr.  Garner  has  found  a  virgin  soil — at  least  he 
has  made  it  so  by  his  very  original  treatment.  'From 
Out  the  Sky,'  'Two  Firmaments,'  and  'Under  the 
Sun,'  as  realistic  studies  of  sky  and  prairie  effects, 
we  do  not  think  have  been  surpassed.    They  are  illu- 


230         3n  tf)e  SftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

sive,  suggestive,  compelling.  He  seems  to  have  caught 
the  distinctive  note  of  the  scene  that  appealed  to  him, 
which  he  reproduces  with  such  vigorous  truthfulness 
that  the  beholder  shares  the  fine  feeling  that  inspires 
his  brush.  Mr.  Garner  is  strikingly  unconventional, 
and  has  seemed  to  ignore  all  standards  and  accepted 
lines  of  procedure,  if,  in  fact,  he  was  familiar  with 
them,  which  we  doubt.  He  has  seen  clearly,  felt 
keenly,  and  in  his  own  way  put  the  result  on  canvas. 
Some  of  his  pictures  remind  one  of  the  verses  of 
Dante,  romances  of  Poe,  the  adagio  in  Tchaikowsky's 
Symphonic  Pathetique,  passages  from  Wagner,  Walt 
Whitman  at  his  best.  Others  are  pastoral  in  their 
simplicity;  one,  a  symbolical  canvas,  ^Spring,'  while  a 
praiseworthy  piece  of  art,  inclines  more  to  the  conven- 
tional. We  predict  for  Mr.  Garner  a  place  among 
America's  greatest  artists,  and  Mr.  Garner  is  intensely 
American,  which  is  not  the  least  that  can  be  said  in 
his  favor.  His  work  as  a  whole  is  remarkable  and 
should  be  seen  by  all  interested  in  American  art, 
though  they  will  find  that  it  will  cheapen  the  average 
pictures." 


3n  tbt  ^iiaDoto  of  <SoD»        231 


CHAPTER   11. 

Marvin  went  home  in  a  glow  of  inward  exultation. 
He  sat  down  and  read  over  the  criticisms  again.  Then 
he  drew  his  chair  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on 
the  darkening  court.  Polly  from  the  shadows  below 
was  shrieking  lustily  for  a  cracker ;  the  muffled  din  of 
the  city  struck  on  his  ear;  its  acrid  odors  floated  on 
the  languid  breeze.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden 
feeling  of  disappointment.  He  wondered  at  the 
strange,  unaccountable  fluctuating  of  his  moods  as  he 
thought  of  the  canvases  in  the  gallery,  the  few  hun- 
dred dollars  in  his  pocket  and  the  extravagant  crit- 
icisms. Why  did  he  find  so  little  satisfaction  in  it 
all?  Why  should  his  exaltation  be  so  shortlived? 
Was  life  to  be  always  leading  him  on  like  an  illusive 
will-o'-the-wisp,  only  to  disappoint  him  in  the  end? 
He  stared  gloomily  into  the  night.  And  on  the  dingy 
curtain  his  imagination  pictured  a  face.  How  the 
blue  eyes  that  glowed  with  tenderneps,  pity,  love, 
haunted  him.  If  he  should  become  famous?  He 
must.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  in  the 
city  nearly  four  years.  She  must  be  in  the  city  even 
now.    He  grew  more  cheerful ;  picked  up  his  hat  and 


232         M  m  ^baDoto  of  ®0D. 

hurried  into  the  streets.  He  spent  the  evening  wan- 
dering about,  scanning  the  faces  of  the  passers-by,  as 
if  he  expected  to  encounter — the  blue  eyes  of  his 
dreams. 

A  few  days  later  he  received  a  second  letter  from 
Miss  Wendells.  It  bore  the  postmark  of  a  summer 
resort  in  Canada.    In  part  it  ran : 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  learn  that  you 
are  in  New  York  and  so  close  to  us.  We  live  at  the 
St.  Denis — ^just  ma  and  pa  and  I.  As  soon  as  we 
return  I  shall  expect  you  to  call. 

"If  you  needed  encouragement  I  am  glad  my  note 
helped  you,  but  I  assure  you  it  but  tamely  expressed 
all  your  picture  made  me  feel.  And  you  really  dream. 
You  know  our  dreams  come  true  if  we  work  and  wait  ? 
Though  I  hope  you  will  not  have  to  wait  long  for  the 
recognition  you  deserve.    I  am  confident  you  will  not. 

"Do  you  like  music  ?  I  am  sure  you  do.  Don't  you 
know,  I  think  of  you  as  being  expressed  in  one  of 
Shubert's  Impromptues.  I  will  play  it  for  you  some- 
time. 

"I  am  directing  my  publishers,  who  happen  to  be 
the  firm  of  which  my  father  is  head,  to  forward  you 
a  little  story  of  mine,  ^Miserere,'  which  I  hope  you 
may  enjoy,  though  don't  feel  under  obligations  to 
praise  it.  It  is  very  slight,  and  my  friends  say  that 
one  can  read  it  standing  on  one  foot. 

"May  I  hope  to  hear  from  you  again  ?  for  I  assure 


In  tbt  ©ftaDoto  of  <SoD*         233 

you  I  am  very  much  interested  in  the  creator  of  that 
fine  piece  of  art,  'God  in  the  Blizzard'." 

A  musician !  a  writer !  Then  she  was  not  the  imma- 
ture, sentimental  girl  that  he  had  thought  her.  He 
found  himself  wondering  how  old  she  was,  how  she 
looked,  and  if  he  would  like  her.  He  had  an  im- 
pression that  he  would.  Anyone  who  could  appreciate 
his  work  would  appeal  to  him  as  a  friend,  he  was 
sure.  Wendells  ?  The  name  sounded  familiar  to  him. 
Then  he  recalled  the  publishing  house  of  Wendells, 
Fisk  &  Company,  that  was  so  well  known  and  highly 
esteemed  in  the  West,  from  which  the  clergy  pur- 
chased their  books.  He  had  always  thought  of  the 
firm  with  a  kind  of  reverent  awe.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  was  to  be  taken  into  the  home  of  this  eminent 
man  ?  He  must  be  very  wealthy,  and  very  prominent 
in  the  city. 

When  "Miserere"  came  he  read  it  with  keen  enjoy- 
ment. He  w^as  not  a  judge  of  literature,  but  praised 
it  extravagantly  in  his  next  letter.  "The  reason  your 
friends  say  that  it  can  be  read  standing  on  one  foot 
is  not  because  of  its  length,  but  because  of  its  absorb- 
ing interest,"  he  wrote. 

With  the  prospect  of  a  market  and  the  promise  of 
new  friends,  he  began  to  think  of  looking  up  more 
comfortable  quarters.  He  sat  down  and  calculated 
his  probable  income.  The  money  he  had  in  the  bank 
was  drawing  interest  and  he  decided  that  he  would 


234         3n  tbt  ^ba&oto  of  <S^oti. 

not  touch  it  only  in  case  of  need.  He  had  realized 
over  two  hundred  dollars  from  his  pictures,  and  he 
thought  it  might  be  possible  now  to  live  on  the  returns 
from  his  brush.    He  would  try. 

He  spent  the  afternoons  of  three  days  looking  for 
rooms.  But  each  time  returned  tired  and  disap- 
pointed. He  could  find  nothing  he  thought  suitable 
that  was  within  his  reach.  In  looking  over  the  adver- 
tisements in  a  morning  paper  he  hit  upon  the  follow- 
ing: "A  bachelor  will  let  two  rooms  of  his  furnished 
apartment  to  a  suitable  party  for  the  summer.  Terms 
reasonable."  Having  an  indefinite  idea  as  to  what 
bachelor  apartments  were,  he  concluded  to  look  up 
the  number  and  investigate.  He  soon  stood  before 
an  apartment  hotel  just  off  Broadway.  A  liveried 
flunky  whisked  him  up  to  the  fifth  floor,  then  there 
was  a  flash  of  electric  bulbs,  black  grinning  face,  and 
Marvin  found  himself  standing  alone  in  the  corridor. 
He  found  a  pearl  button  in  the  door  facing  and  touched 
it.  The  door  opened  slowly  and  he  found  himself 
facing  a  stocky  man  of  forty-five  or  six,  well  groomed, 
handsome,  a  good-humored  smile  on  his  face.  He 
motioned  his  visitor  to  a  chair,  lighted  a  cigarette  at 
an  alcohol  lamp  that  burned  at  his  elbow,  and 
stretched  himself  in  a  Morris  chair.  Marvin  glanced 
about  the  room.  He  had  not  expected  such  elegance. 
It  was  a  far  cry  from  the  ^^bach  quarters"  he  had 
known  in  the  West.     It  occurred  to  him  that  "terms 


In  the  SfiaDoto  of  &on.        235 

reasonable''  did  not  mean  to  this  well-conditioned  man 
what  it  did  to  him. 

"You  came  to  see  the  rooms?"  said  Mr.  Donham, 
pleasantly. 

"Yes,"  returned  Marvin;  "but  I'm  afraid  I  would 
not  be  able  to  pay  what  you  might  expect." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  other  laughing.  It 
seemed  to  come  easy  for  him  to  laugh.  "You  see,  I 
am  expecting  to  be  away  a  good  deal  this  summer  and 
it  is  more  to  have  someone  in  the  apartment,  than  the 
rent,  that  led  me  to  insert  the  ^ad\  Of  course,  you'll 
expect  us  to  exchange  references?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Marvin  frankly. 
"I  am  a  stranger  in  the  city — and  I'm  afraid  there  is 
no  one  to  whom  I  could  refer.  I  paint — Mr.  Donald 
knows  me — that  is,  he  handles  my  pictures." 

"Oh,  he'll  do,  I  guess,"  said  Donham,  lighting  a 
fresh  cigarette  and  offering  his  visitor  one.  "I'll  show 
you  the  rooms — they  may  not  suit  you  after  all." 

In  comparison  with  his  hot,  stuffy  hall-bedroom 
they  seemed  like  veritable  parlors  in  their  roomy  lux- 
uriance. He  had  never  occupied  anything  like  them. 
Donham  during  the  while  had  been  plying  him  with 
questions,  and  apparently  had  satisfied  himself  as  to 
the  character  of  his  prospective  tenant. 

"If  you  like  them,  I  think  it  will  be  all  right  about 
the  references." 


236        Kn  tfte  Sfjaaoto  of  (Son* 

"I  like  them  very  much — ^but,  you  know,  I'd  want 
to  use  one  as  a  kind  of  studio." 

*'Sure  —  paint  anywhere  —  just  make  yourself  at 
home."  The  price  was  surprisingly  low,  Marvin 
thought,  and  it  was  arranged  that  he  move  in. 

That  evening  when  his  one  small,  much-battered 
trunk  and  pine-box  were  brought  in,  Donham  had  a 
hearty  spell  of  laughing,  but  there  was  a  kindliness 
about  it  that  took  out  the  sting.  Though  nothing  was 
said  about  the  cause  of  his  merriment,  Marvin  knew 
and  joined  in.  Somehow  he  felt  he  could  afford  to  be 
laughed  at  by  this  big,  good-natured,  ambitionless 
bachelor.  He  felt  as  superior  to  him  as  Donham's  big, 
rawhide,  silver-mounted  trunk  was  superior  to  his 
antiquated  pine-box.  Then  he  liked  him  and  felt 
under  obligations  to  him  for  taking  him  into  his  com- 
fortable apartment.  If  he  afforded  him  amusement 
he  was  glad.  When  he  was  unpacking  he  asked  Don- 
ham  in  to  see  his  pictures.  He  was  evidently  sur- 
prised, and  for  an  instant  lost  his  easy  air  of  assur- 
ance. In  fact,  he  was  embarrassed.  He  had  the 
manner  of  one  suddenly  realizing  that  he  has  mis- 
taken his  man;  or  has  been  confidently  explaining 
what  he  knows  little  of  to  one  who  turns  out  to  be 
an  expert.  But  his  enlightenment  only  fed  his  good- 
humor.  He  sat  down  and  chatted  friendly,  giving 
Marvin  information  about  the  locality  and  the  best 
feeding  arrangements.     When  he  was  through  his 


3n  tht  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oD*        237 

unpacking,  Donham  had  him  go  down  and  take  din- 
ner with  him  at  a  Broadway  restaurant.  This  cour- 
tesy Marvin  would  have  declined,  but  did  not  because 
he  feared  he  could  not  do  it  gracefully  enough  not  to 
wound  his  new  acquaintance. 

He  was  delighted  w^ith  the  new  arrangement  and 
with  his  new  friend.  He  began  to  have  a  kindlier 
feeling  toward  his  fellow,  and  to  venture  out  of  him- 
self. Perhaps  he  was  mistaken  after  all,  and  had 
judged  humanity  on  too  little  evidence.  Anyway,  life 
began  to  take  on  brighter  colors,  and  for  a  long  time 
he  looked  back  to  that  first  night  in  the  bachelor's 
apartment  as  one  of  the  memorable  ones  in  his  life — 
it  marked  the  beginning  of  a  new  order  of  things. 


238         an  tfte  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oD* 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  sweltering  days  of  August  glared  themselves 
out  over  the  city.  Everyone  who  could  hied  them  to 
mountain  and  seashore.  But  Marvin  found  his  fifth- 
story  apartment  delightfully  pleasant,  and  the  sum- 
mer months  had  been  the  most  fruitful  of  his  stay  in 
the  city.  Soon  after  he  settled,  Mr.  Donham  went  to 
the  coast  of  Maine  and  temporarily  he  had  been  left 
monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.  Mr.  Donald  had  advised 
him  not  to  place  any  more  pictures  on  view  till  the 
fall  exhibits  opened  and  art-lovers  returned  to  town, 
so  he  had  put  in  the  days  painting,  and  the  nights 
dirfting  abut  the  streets  into  all  kinds  of  out-of-the- 
way  places. 

September  slipped  by,  and  early  in  October  he  re- 
ceived a  note  from  Miss  Wondells  informing  him  of 
her  return  and  asking  him  to  call. 

Miss  Wondells  was  not  a  beauty.  She  was  tall, 
muscular  and  blonde.  Her  eyes  were  purple  and  prom- 
inent ;  mouth  self-confident  and  aggressive.  Her  age 
was  dubious,  but  easily  nearing  the  forty  mark.  But 
there  was  a  kindliness  in  her  manner  that  pleased 
him.    She  came  forward  and  took  his  hand  cordially. 


In  tfte  giftaDoto  of  (SoD*         239 

"Why,  Mr.  Garner/'  she  said,  looking  hina  over 
thoughtfully,  "you  are  just  as  I  pictured  you." 

"I  suppose  I  should  say  thank  you  ?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"Thank  you." 

When  they  were  seated  they  fell  to  discussing 
"Miserere"  and  the  "Blizzard."  Then  in  a  lull  in 
the  conversation  he  said: 

"I  suppose  your  father  is  a  great  churchworker, 
Miss  Wondells?" 

She  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "That's  a  good 
joke,"  she  explained.  "I  will  have  to  tell  father.  He 
hasn't  been  in  a  church  for  years." 

"Oh,"  gasped  Marvin,  "I  beg  your  pardon.  You 
know  he  publishes  religious  books  and  the  ^Sermon 
Maker'  and  'The  Pastor's  Helper,'  and  I  always  had 
an  idea  that  he  must  be  a  very  religious  man." 

"Quite  naturally,  I  suppose.  And  I  guess  he  once 
was.  Papa  began  life  as  a  clergyman,  you  know; 
then  he  took  up  law,  now  he  is  a  publisher.  Odd, 
isn't  it?" 

"Then  he  isn't  religious  now  ?" 

She  had  to  laugh  again.  "Well,  you  might  call  it 
that,  though  not  in  the  sense  you  mean,  perhaps.  At 
present  he  seems  to  fluctuate  between  Ethical  Culture 
and  Spiritualism.  The  seance  seems  to  be  his  fad 
just  at  this  moment.  Last  year  it  was  Theosophy. 
Mother  says  it  will  be  Christian  Science  next,  or  'New 


240         3n  ti)e  ^|)aDPta3  of  (S^oD* 

Thought,  unless  something  newer  turns  up  in  the 
meantime." 

"But  your  father  believes  in  the  Church  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  sure  he  ought  to — he  makes  his  money 
out  of  it  But  I'm  not  sure  he's  interested  further 
than  that.  He  says  most  of  the  city  churches  are  little 
more  than  fashionable  clubs.  Kich  men  give  to  them 
as  a  kind  of  concession  to  their  consciences,  and  their 
wives  and  daughters  run  societies  for  the  improve- 
ment of — everything  in  sight.  I'm  sure,  though,  they 
must  do  quite  a  good  work  among  the  poor  in  the  way 
of  charity,  but  father  says  it  could  be  done  better  and 
cheaper  by  the  city.  I'm  sure  I'm  not  competent  to 
pass  on  the  matter.  I  know  New  York  is  dotted  with 
churches  of  every  faith  and  description.  I  guess  most 
people  have  to  have  that  kind  of  thing,  especially  the 
women — and  it  makes  it  nice  for  papa.  Why,  he 
spent  $100,000  preparing  the  Standard  Church  Ency- 
clopedia before  a  copy  was  sold — I  was  awfully  afraid 
it  was  a  risky  undertaking.  Well,  it  sold  by  the  mill- 
ions. You  know,  a  great  many  people  will  buy  any- 
thiijg  that  is  supposed  to  be  religious  if  it  is  bound 
attractively  enough.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  an  ar- 
dent church  member  and  a  woman  of  great  faith,  but, 
you  know,  I  was  educated  abroad,  in  Paris  and  Ber- 
lin, and  I've  never  cared  for  such  things." 

"What  is  your  religion  ?"  asked  Marvin. 

"Grand  opera  and  art.    But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 


In  tbt  S^ftaDoto  of  ©oB*         241 

Gamer,  I  hope  I  have  not  offended  you — I  forgot  that 
you  might  be  a  church  member." 

"!N"o,  I  don't  even  believe  in  a  God.  "When  I  did  I 
cursed  and  defied  him.  Now  it  amuses  me  to  think 
I  ever  had  that  much  faith  in  the  old  superstitions." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful — and  dangerous,"  she  cried  in 
mock  alarm.  "Are  you  not  afraid  of  some  terrible 
judgment — that  you'll  be  struck  suddenly  blind  ?  lose 
your  right  hand  in  a  street-car  accident,  or  something 
awful  like  that?  You  know  it  used  to  happen  that 
way." 

"It  may  again.  'Not  as  a  judgment  from  or  the 
influence  of  any  mythological  supreme  being,  but  as  a 
result  of  natural  causes." 

"Why,  you  almost  shock  me.  I  thought  you  green 
from  the  West — unsophisticated — and — and  I  find 
you've  already  developed  beyond  the  Xew  Thought. 
Perhaps  you  might  convert  papa  and  myself  to  your 
ideas.  You  know  I've  been  dabbling  in  New  Thought 
a  little  to  please  my  friends.  It  is  so  comforting,  if 
one  can  only  persuade  oneself  to  believe  it — that  all 
the  good  things  you  may  desire  will  tumble  into  your 
lap  if  only  you  pray  for  and  think  of  them  hard 
enough." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  But  one  would  get  the  same 
results  praying  to  the  sun  or  his  solar  plexus.  I  often 
pray  to  my  mother  and  my  own  soul.  It  satisfies  the 
superstitious  instinct,  and  then  I  find  it  helps  me.    It 


242         3n  tfte  ©fiatioto  of  &on. 

keeps  one's  courage  up  and  refreshes  his  egotism  quite 
as  much  as  if  he  believed  the  great  Creator  was  per- 
sonally interested  in  his  small  affairs  and  listening  to 
his  selfish  petitions.  I  consider  that  the  supreme  ego- 
tism. But  it's  good  for  those  who  like  it,  I  suppose. 
I  have  no  desire  to  interfere  with  the  other  fellow's 
belief  if  he'll  let  me  alone  with  mine.  I've  concluded 
one's  religion  is  mostly  a  matter  of  temperament, 
shape  of  the  head,  early  influences  and  experiences,  as 
in  mine ;  or  education,  as  in  yours." 

"How  original — and  how  refreshing.  Shake,"  she 
said,  stepping  over  and  offering  her  hand.  He  rose 
and  clasped  it  firmly.  As  they  stood  thus,  laughing 
in  mutual  understanding  and  good  fellowship,  their 
eyes  met.  Marvin's  face  went  red  and  fell  to  the 
floor. 

"Let  me  hear  you  play  that  Shubert — what  you  call 
it — you  said  I  reminded  you  of,"  he  said,  recovering 
himself,  dropping  her  hand. 

Miss  Wendells  was  proud  of  her  playing,  and  sat 
down  to  the  piano.  Marvin  sank  into  the  embrace 
of  soft  cushions  and  listened;  watched  her  hands 
move  above  the  black  and  white  keys  and  thought  of 
the  wings  of  birds.  The  music  seemed  to  drip,  flow, 
gush;  fall  in  gentle  showers  from  her  finger-tips. 
Then  he  forgot  to  watch  her  hands,  became  uncon- 
scious of  the  player,  carried  out  of  himself  by  waves 
of  melody  that  vibrated  to  the  very  depth  of  his  soul ; 


In  tbt  ^ftaDoto  of  0oD*         243 

that  thrilled  and  moved  him  unaccountably;  filling 
his  imagination  with  vivid  pictures — ^grand,  fantastic, 
tragic,  pathetic.  His  emotions  seemed  to  find  expres- 
sion in  images.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  yielded  him- 
self to  the  vibrant  panorama  that  swept  through  his 
brain.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  suddenly  come  into  a 
new  world — the  world  of  which  he  had  dreamed. 
Then  there  flashed  upon  him  that  strange  feeling  that 
he  had  lived  through  it  all  before — as  he  had  gazed 
on  the  limitless  stretches  of  the  prairie  —  into  the 
sunset  sky. 

There  was  an  abrupt  silence.  He  looked  up.  Miss 
Wendells  sat  before  the  piano  motionless,  her  hands 
limp  in  her  lap,  gazing  into  space  abstractedly,  her 
cheeks  pale.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  pres- 
ence. 

"Grand,"  he  cried  enthusiastically.  "I  can't  e^ 
press  how  you  moved  me." 

"I  thought  you'd  like  it,"  she  replied,  smiling  up 
at  him,  animation  sweeping  into  her  cheeks. 

"And  that's  what  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"No ;  not  exactly  that — I  can't  explain.  But  some- 
how when  I  think  of  you  I  associate  you  with  that 
impromptu." 

"I  think  I  understand.  You  see  in  melody  just  as 
I  feel  in  pictures.  As  you  played  I  saw  myself  as  a 
boy  again,  stretched  on  the  grass  watching  the  flight 
of  swallows  against  the  pale  afterglow,  the  hushed 


244:         3n  tfte  SftaDoto  of  <SoD* 

note  of  a  lone  bird  rising  from  the  shadowy  tree-tops, 
and  above,  a  crescent  moon  on  a  pale-green  sky." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  how  beautiful.  I  think  this  would 
express  you  in  some  of  your  moods — it's  Beethoven.'' 
When  she  turned  and  looked  into  his  eyes  no  words  of 
his  were  needed  to  tell  her  how  he  had  enjoyed  it.  She 
smiled  her  thanks  and  whispered,  "Liszt,"  as  her 
hands  like  sentient  things  plunged  into  the  passionate 
bars  of  "Mephisto  Waltzer." 

"Oh,  that's  fine.  Pshaw,"  he  cried  impatiently, 
rising  and  standing  by  her.  "You'll  think  I  don't 
appreciate  your  playing — I  can't  express  it — I  never 
heard  anything  like  it — I  could  listen  always." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  so  glad  you  like  music — I  was 
sure  you  would.  Your  pictures  are  music  in  colors — 
Wagner,  Beethoven,  Chopin " 

A  maid  entered  with  refreshments. 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind.  Mother  thinks  when  two 
or  three  are  gathered  together,  as  the  Prayer  Book 
says — ^morning,  noon  or  night — it's  an  occasion  for 
tea.  So  you'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  to  like 
tea  if  you  wish  ma's  good  opinion.  This  is  some  a 
high  official  recommended  to  father  when  we  were 
travelling  in  China." 

."Oh,  I'm  fond  of  tea." 

"How  kind  of  you  to  say  so.    I'll  tell  mother." 

"But  I  really  am." 


Hn  tbt  ©ijaDoto  of  <©oD*         245 

"Why,  of  course  you  are,  but  I  am  not.  I  like  art 
better.    Tell  me  about  your  new  pictures." 

Then  as  they  faced  each  other  across  the  dainty 
tea-table  with  its  embroidered  linen  and  eggshell 
china,  he  told  her  of  his  exhibition  and  "At  the  Edge 
of  the  Prairie." 

"Let  me  congratulate  you.  It  is  wonderful.  Don*t 
you  know,  I  have  friends  down  at  the  Salmagundi 
who  have  never  done  anything  in  their  lives  but  study 
art — here  and  abroad — and  have  painted  and  painted, 
and  with  all  their  wealth  and  friends  and  influence 
have  not  had  half  your  success.  Why,  youVe  arrived. 
I  told  mamma  that  the  ^Blizzard'  was  great — I'm  so 
glad  my  judgment  is  confirmed.  And  my  note  was 
the  first  recognition  of  your  work  ?" 

"Yes,  in  the  city." 

"Why,  that  makes  me  feel  almost  as  proud  as  if  I 
had  painted  the  ^Blizzard'  myself.  You  know,  the 
next  thing  to  being  a  genius  is  being  able  to  appre- 
ciate one." 

When  Marvin  rose  to  go  it  was  past  twelve.  Miss 
Wendells  walked  with  him  to  the  elevator  and  smiled 
and  waved  to  him  till  he  passed  from  sight. 

Some  hours  later  he  sat  at  his  fifth-story  window, 
reclining  in  Donham's  Morris  chair,  gazing  out  across 
the  Hudson,  where  the  night  boats  shot  great  caverns 
of  light  into  the  night.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  wonder- 
ing,   thinking,    dreaming.      Presently   his   thoughts 


246         In  tfte  ^batioto  of  (SoD» 

drifted  backward,  and  a  strange  longing  touched  his 
spirit.  There  came  to  him  an  acrid  yearning  for 
something  his  life  did  not  possess.  His  head  sank  to 
his  arm  and  lay  motionless.  A  cool  breeze  swept  into 
the  room,  rustling  the  papers  on  the  table;  the  clock 
ticked  noiselessly;  from  the  the  street  rose  the  in- 
creasing rumble  of  the  waking  city. 

There  was  a  faint  clack,  and  the  door  swung  softly 
open.  Marvin  started  up.  A  shadowy  form  tiptoed 
into  the  room. 

"Hello,  Garner,  what  you  doing  up  this  time  of 
morning?  Vve  been  making  a  regular  cracksman's 
entry  so's  not  to  disturb  your  beauty  sleep " 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Donham,  but  I  have 
been  in  only  a  short  while." 

"Oh,  I  see,  you  are  getting  to  be  a  regular  night 
owl — well,  how  are  you  ?" 


3n  tfte  ^fiaDoto  of  <SoD*         247 


CHAPTER   IV. 

It  was  the  season  of  art  exhibits,  sales  and  auctions. 
"At  the  Edge  of  the  Prairie"  had  been  an  attraction 
for  some  days  in  Donald's  show-window.  During  the 
time  groups  of  the  curious  could  be  seen  standing  be- 
fore it  at  almost  any  hour.  The  art  critics  had  ac- 
corded it  warm  praise  and  already  the  artist's  name 
was  becoming  known  among  a  coterie  of  art  dealers 
and  collectors.  The  individual  who  had  patronized 
Marvin's  first  sale  so  liberally,  and  who  still  withheld 
his  name,  had  offered  five  hundred  dollars  for  the  new 
picture.  "While  it  was  more  than  Marvin  expected  to 
realize,  Mr.  Donald  advised  that  he  let  it  remain  on 
view  some  days  longer  before  closing  the  deal.  Then 
one  night  at  the  auction  of  a  private  collection  at  Men- 
delssohn Hall,  with  his  friend  Donham,  a  bold  scheme 
occurred  to  him.  The  possibilities  it  opened  up  to  his 
fancy  for  a  moment  turned  him  cold.  The  idea  had 
its  inception  in  the  sale  of  a  small  canvas  by  Mauve, 
"The  Return  from  the  Pasture,"  that  had  been 
knocked  down  at  $11,000.  He  knew  that  while  the 
picture  was  great,  intrinsically  it  was  not  worth  the 
aaoney,  and  in  spite  of  the  fame  of  the  artist  would 


248        M  tbt  ^baDoto  of  aoD. 

not  have  commanded  it  bad  it  not  been  for  the  spirit 
of  rivalry  and  recklessness  engendered  by  the  bidding. 
He  believed  his  picture  was  just  as  great  in  a  differ- 
ent way,  and  presently  found  himself  speculating  as 
to  the  effect  it  would  have  upon  the  art-lovers  if  unex- 
pectedly brought  before  them.  Then  flashed  into  his 
mind  the  scheme  to  compass  it.  It  seemed  so  wild, 
so  impractical,  that  he  did  not  dare  mention  it  for 
some  days.  But  finding  that  he  could  not  get  away 
from  the  idea,  he  called  on  Mr.  Sills,  the  auctioneer 
and  manager  of  the  sales,  and  unfolded  his  plan. 
That  gentleman  was  disposed  to  dissuade  him  from 
his  purpose,  kindly  hinting  that  it  would  likely  be 
disappointing.  But  Marvin  was  determined,  and 
upon  his  advancing  an  amount  to  cover  the  expense 
of  handling  the  picture,  a  satisfactory  arrangement 
was  consummated. 

It  was  some  days  until  the  evening  of  the  next  auc- 
tion, which  was  to  be  the  collection  of  a  noted  connois- 
seur. When  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back,  Marvin  was 
seized  with  a  panic  of  fear,  and  grew  restless  and  im- 
patient. Sunday  came  and  Donham  asked  him  to  at- 
tend the  Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin.  He  had  not 
been  to  church  during  his  stay  in  the  city,  and  par- 
tially to  please  his  friend,  who  had  regularly  invited 
him,  more  to  dispose  of  the  time,  he  consented.  He 
had  often  wondered  what  his  pleasure-loving,  time- 
killing  friend  found  so  attractive  in  the  church  ser- 


In  tht  S^ftaDoto  of  ©oD*         249 

vices  to  cause  him  to  be  so  faithful  in  his  attendance. 
He  seldom  missed  a  service,  frequently  getting  up 
before  day  that  he  might  be  present  at  some  early  cere- 
mony. At  these  times  he  took  no  breakfast  and  had 
asked  Marvin  not  to  speak  to  him  until  his  return.  To 
take  food  or  talk  was  supposed  to  annul  in  some  mys- 
terious way  the  full  efficacy  of  this  matutinal  rite. 
Marvin  had  not  expressed  his  religious  views  and  had 
refrained  from  commenting  on  his  friend's.  Any  con- 
fidence or  information  on  the  subject  had  been  listened 
to  in  silence  or  dismissed  with  the  simple  statement 
that  he  was  not  competent  to  pass  on  the  matter. 

The  spectacular  worship  of  St.  Mary's  appealed  to 
him  in  the  same  way  that  a  novel  theatrical  perform- 
ance would.  The  worship  he  had  been  used  to  was 
of  the  simplest  form.  He  had  gone  through  no  train- 
ing to  prepare  him  for  the  extreme  contrast.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  realize  that  he  was  in  a  church, 
that  this  was  supposed  to  be  a  Christian  service.  He 
found  himself  wondering  how  men  could  evolve  this 
kind  of  thing  from  Christ's  teaching.  He  could  not 
believe  that  Christ  ever  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of 
such  ritualistic  ceremonies  in  his  name ;  would  be  con- 
foimded  if  he  could  behold  them.  He  thought  the 
music  beautiful,  though  not  as  good  as  he  had  heard 
at  the  opera,  and  he  rather  enjoyed  the  singsong  in- 
tonation of  the  priests  and  the  censer  calesthenics 
of  the  acolytes,  who  seemed  to  be  going  through  some 


250         3n  tfte  S^ftaDoto  of  ©oD* 

Htrennous  disinfectant  process.  The  procession, 
headed  by  a  chief  performer,  whose  superfluities  of 
robes  required  the  "eternal  vigilance"  of  two  assist- 
ants, reminded  him  of  cheap  stage  processions  of 
tawdry  royalty.  He  knew  it  all  Avas  supposed  to  be 
a  high  act  of  worship  and  was  symbolical  of  beautiful 
thoughts  and  attitudes  of  soul;  but  what  perplexed 
him  was  that  intelligent  men  should  think  an  intelli- 
gent God  was  pleased  at  such  florid  incantations  or 
complimented  at  such  a  waste  of  time  and  incense. 
God  at  least  must  be  an  ideal  man,  infinitely  superior 
to  him  in  character,  and  he  could  not  conceive  of  a 
man  worthy  respect  and  reverence  being  gratified  at 
such  mummery.  One  impulse,  thought  or  act  toward 
a  righteous  life  would  mean  more  to  the  God  he 
once  believed  in  than  volcanoes  of  incense,  emporiums 
of  vestments  and  multitudes  of  priests  genuflecting 
to  operatic  music. 

He  was  puzzled  at  his  friend's  intense  devotional 
attitude.  He  seemed  lifted  out  of  himself — overcome 
by  some  mystical  exaltation.  He  could  not  question 
that  he  believed  in  it  with  all  his  heart,  that  it  ap- 
pealed to  him  strongly — esthetically,  spectacularly, 
dramatically.  He  could  not  fathom  in  which  way. 
He  recalled  the  religious  frenzies  he  had  witnessed 
in  the  meetings  under  brush  arbors.  It  was  a  long 
cry  from  one  to  the  other,  but  he  felt  that  they  both 
had  their  origin  in  the  senses,  were  unchristian,  and 


In  tbt  ®{)aDoto  of  <SoD»         251 

did  not  necessarily  iixJuence  character.  The  ignorant 
fanatic  would  have  viewed  the  worship  of  the  cultured 
ritualist  as  heathenish,  and  the  ritualist  would  have 
looked  upon  the  fanatic's  orgies  as  savagery ;  but  both 
alike  wete  still  in  the  kindergarten  of  religion.  But 
he  had  no  feelings  of  contempt  or  condemnation. 
This  was  the  only  thing  possible  for  these  people. 
As  well  get  indignant  at  a  child  because  it  could  not 
comprehend  geometry  as  to  find  fault  with  them.  If 
it  appealed  to  them,  helped  them,  why  should  they  not 
have  it?  So  he  broadened  as  he  came  into  wider 
observation,  experience,  knowledge.  The  clergyman's 
remarks,  however,  provoked  within  him  a  passing  an- 
tagonism. It  'was  short,  but  an  ardently  dogmatic 
exortation  on  the  necessity  and  beneficence  of  con- 
fession. To  Marvin  it  was  the  extreme  of  egotism  to 
believe  the  Creator  was  personally  interested  in  the 
individual,  but  for  man  to  insist  and  teach  that  he  was 
a  special  agent  of  deity,  and  was  necessary  in  the  dis- 
pensation of  His  grace,  mercies  and  forgivenesses, 
was  a  miracle  of  presumption  and  blasphemy.  His 
order  of  mind  was  such  that  the  idea  was  unthinkable. 
He  had  to  accept  this  differing  intelligence,  or  the 
absence  of  it,  as  he  did  life,  the  world,  and  other 
mysteries.  They  were  here  and  there  was  no  satis- 
factory explanation  for  them. 

"Well,  how  did  you  like  the  service  ?"  asked  Don- 


252         3n  tbt  &i)dDDto  of  aoD« 

ham,  as  they  turned  from  the  throng  and  walked 
toward  Broadway. 

"I  enjoyed  it  very  much,  and  I  am  glad  you 
brought  me  with  you.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it — 
the  music  was  fine." 

"Father  Fulistian  is  great.  I  think  sometime  he 
must  be  inspired.  'No  other  clergyman  in  the  city 
could  do  it.  You  ought  to  attend  a  High  Celebration 
— I  tell  you  it  is  great." 

"It  was  very  entertaining." 

They  had  reached  Broadway  when  a  voice  reached 
them  from  an  uncertain  direction. 

"Hello,  Donham."  They  stopped  and  soon  sighted 
a  tall,  thin  man  in  a  Prince  Albert  leisurely  approach- 
ing them.  Marvin  thought  he  must  be  a  clergyman 
and  instinctively  shrank  from  an  introduction. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Hayers,"  said  Donham,  as 
they  shook  hands.  "Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friend 
Garner — the  artist  I  was  telling  you  of." 

They  crossed  Broadway  toward  the  Marlsborough. 

"Had  your  dinner  ?"  asked  Hayers.  "Well,  you'll 
dine  with  me,"  he  said,  upon  receiving  a  negative. 
He  led  the  way  into  the  hotel,  and  they  entered  the 
dining-room. 

"I  see  you  are  up  to  your  old  tricks,  Donham," 
said  Hayers,  when  they  were  seated  and  the  orders 
given.  "Proselyting  to  high  church.  Oh,  you  needn't 
deny  it — I  can  smell  it  on  your  clothes.    But  I  guess 


In  tbt  ^i)aDoh]  of  aoD«         253 

you  need  a  good  fumigation  occasionally,  though  I'm 
afraid  it  doesn't  get  any  deeper  than  your  Sunday 
suit — unless  it  gives  you  a  holy  influenza." 

"]N'ow,  don't  begin  your  blasphemy,  Hayers;  Mr. 
Garner  may  not  understand  you.'' 

"You  high  church,  Mr.  Garner?" 

"I  don't  belong  to  a  church." 

"Oh,  good ;  then  you'll  understand.  You've  learned 
to  think.     These  church  people" " 

"Don't  believe  half  he  says.  Garner;  he  pays  a 
thousand  a  year  for  a  pew  in  St.  Thomas." 

"And  haven't  been  in  it  since  I  learned  to  think. 
I'm  a  Christian,  not  a  churchman,  ^o  intelligent 
Christian  can  remain  a  good  churchman " 

"I  admire  your  modesty " 

"It  isn't  modesty,  it's  simply  the  truth.  No; 
there's  not  a  church,  and  I've  looked  into  them  all, 
that  stands  for  Christ,  pure  and  simple.  Their  teach- 
ing and  practice  is  a  travesty  on  His  life " 

"You  forget  that  the  church  existed  before  Christ  ?" 

"No;  I  remember,  and  that  it  fixed  His  divinity, 
passed  upon  the  canon  of  inspiration  and  still  insists 
that  it  alone  can  interpret  it.  If  we  accept  that 
theory,  it  means  that  a  set  of  uninspired  men,  for  the 
most  part  ignorant,  wholly  so,  in  the  light  of  present- 
day  knowledge,  determined  what  was  inspiration. 
Men  are  as  wise  now  as  when  Constantino  called  the 
Fathers  together  and  dominated  and  browbeat  them 


254         3n  tfie  SfiaDoto  of  (SoD* 

into  a  statement  of  the  faith.  Why  not  a  new  set  of 
men  pass  on  inspiration  and  faith  to-day?  Inspira- 
tion is  nothing  more  than  the  highest  ideals  of  the 
"wisest  and  best  of  any  age.  Christ  was  a  great  and 
good  man,  but  a  superstitious  age  made  Him  a  God. 
Let  an  intelligent,  scientific  age  restore  Him  to  His 
true  place,  then  people  who  think  will  be  attracted 
to  the  church,  and  it  will  not  be  given  over  to  women 
and  effeminate  men " 

"You  know,  Hayers,  that  all  the  best  people  are  in 
the  church  ?" 

"And  the  worst.  That's  the  very  point  I  make — it 
doesn't  mean  anything.  It's  nothing  more  than  a 
powerful  club  people  join  to  further  some  selfish  end. 
Why  one  already  feels  suspicious  of  a  man  if  he 
teaches  in  a  Sunday  School  or  passes  an  alms  basin. 
If  the  old  theories  are  true  why  don't  the  clergy  stick 
to  the  mechanical  formula — as  Christ  died  for  all 
men,  all  men  will  be  saved,  and  let  it  rest  there.  But 
they  condition  and  limit  His  work  in  order  that  they 
may  get  a  finger  in  the  pie.  So  men  are  lost,  if  you 
listen  to  them,  unless  they  believe  a  creed  made  by 
man,  are  baptized  by  man,  confirmed  by  man,  con- 
fessed by  man,  communed  by  man,  buried  by  man, 
none  of  which  Christ  did  or  taught.  But  they  are 
wiser  in  their  generation  than  was  Christ.  He  had 
not  where  to  lay  his  head  and  was  crucified  because 
He  put  to  shame  and  condemned  the  church ;  now  His 


In  tfte  S)i)aDoto  of  ©oD*         255 

professed  representatives  live  in  luxury,  wear  purple 
and  fine  linen  and  dine  sumptuously  every  day.  They 
cry  out  against  unrighteousness  in  the  pulpit  and  the 
brethren  in  the  pew  cry  amen — and  they  all  go  out 
and  worship  at  the  shrine  of  mammon  six  days  in 
the  week,  yes " 

"You  are  just  talking,  Hayers,  and  you  know  it." 

"Yes ;  talking  facts.  The  trouble  is  they  hopelessly 
confuse  morals,  religion  and  salvation.  The  latter,  so 
far  as  the  future  is  concerned,  is  nothing  but  a  specu- 
lation. They  teach  that  if  you  go  through  a  certain 
process  here  you  are  saved  from  hell  hereafter ;  when, 
in  fact,  you  may  not  be  either  religious  or  moral. 
Then  there's  no  more  virtue  in  being  religious  than  in 
being  musical.  It's  a  matter  of  temperament,  and  is 
no  guarantee  of  a  correct  life.  You  know  you  are 
very  religious  and  you  know  you  have  no  morals  to 
speak  of.  You  think  high  mass,  incense,  and  con- 
fession to  a  gouty,  high-living  old  priest  will  even 
things  up.  "No ;  there's  no  such  a  thing  as  the  salva- 
tion taught  in  the  churches.  Every  man  saves  him- 
self— Christ,  the  church,  civilization,  counts  for  little 
unless  a  man  knows  right  and  tries  to  live  the  right 
he  knows." 

"The  truth  is,  Hayers,  you  don't  know  what  you 
believe;  and  the  more  you  talk  the  more  befuddled 
you  get." 

"You  mustn't  mind  my  harangue,  Mr.  Garner.    If 


256         3n  tbe  SftaDoto  of  (SoD* 

I  didn't  give  Donham  a  rounding-up  occasionally,  he 
would  backslide.  He  takes  a  kind  of  pride  in  my 
free-thinking  ideas.  It  makes  him  feel  safe  and  com- 
fortable in  his  cussed  piousness  to  hear  me  blaspheme, 
as  he  calls  it." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right  as  long  as  you  keep  talking. 
Men  who  have  fixed  convictions  are  men  who  seldom 
seek  occasion  to  air  them,"  said  Donham,  winking  at 
Marvin. 

"By  the  way,  Hayers,  how  much  did  you  give  that 
clergyman  you  said  had  written  you  for  a  donation  V* 

"I'm  glad  you  mentioned  that.  I  invited  him  to 
come  down.  I  wanted  value  received  for  my  money. 
I  gave  him  two  thousand  dollars  and  he  took  two  bot- 
tles of  port.  He  drank  wine  like  a  fish  drinks  water. 
But  he  agreed  to  everything  I  said.  I  have  never 
found  so  easy  a  convert.  He  acknowledged  that  the 
creed  was  a  statement  of  an  ignorant,  superstitious 
age;  that  educated  people  no  longer  believed  in  the 
miraculous  birth ;  that  Christ  was  the  natural  son  of 
Joseph,  or  otherwise  he  would  be  illegitimate;  that 
Holy  Ghost  was  symbolical  language  and  meant  sim- 
ply love — love  overpowered  Mary,  he  read  it;  that 
divinity  as  applied  to  Christ  meant  only  a  righteous 
ideal.  But  he  told  me  one  thing  I  didn't  know.  He 
said  there  was  a  St.  Joseph  Society  in  the  church  that 
had  for  its  chief  tenets  the  statements  I  have  just 
made " 


In  tfie  ^fiaDoto  of  <SoD*         ssr 

"Tou  are  joking,  Hajers " 


"]^o;  I  repeat  what  he  said;  but  when  a  man 
gets  on  the  outside  of  two  bottles  of  port  you  can 
expect  him  to  say  things — and  a  man  ought  to  say 
things  for  two  thousand  dollars.  Then  he'll  find  it 
easy  to  absolve  himself,  and  it's  rather  difiicult  to 
pick  up  two  thousand  dollars  every  day.  I'm  not 
holding  it  against  him.  He  earned  his  money  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you.  By  the 
way,  you  must  come  over  to  Mendlesshon  Hall  Fri- 
day night,"  said  Donham,  changing  the  subject.  "Mr. 
Garner  is  going  to  spring  a  sensation.  His  picture 
is  going  to  be  put  up  at  auction  during  the  Peyster 
sale.    You  must  be  there  and  try  a  bid." 

"Why,  yes,  I  will.  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it. 
Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Garner,  you  never  expressed 
your  religious  views,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that  I 
didn't  give  you  an  opportunity." 

"Oh,  about  the  only  belief  I  have  is  that  every  be- 
lief is  the  correct  one  for  the  person  believing  it." 

"Well,  you  are  liberal,  at  any  rate." 

"Yes,  I  think  I'm  liberal." 


258         M  tfie  SftaDoUi  of  (Sofl* 


CHAPTER   V. 

Mendlesshon  Hall  was  packed  with  the  artistic  elite 
of  the  city.  The  sale  had  been  extensively  advertised 
and  when  Marvin  and  his  friends  arrived  the  audi- 
torium was  already  filled.  Some  had  come  with  the 
hope  of  securing  a  noted  canvas;  others  that  they 
might  add  to  their  collection  a  picture  from  that  of 
the  late  Senator  Peyster's,  they  were  not  particular 
about  the  kind  of  picture  or  the  reputation  of  the 
artist ;  but  the  large  majority  were  dealers,  art  lovers 
and  the  curious,  who  had  come  to  buy,  view  the 
pictures  and  enjoy  the  excitement  incident  to  a  sale 
of  this  kind. 

^^Hello,  there's  Curgan.  I  wonder  what  he's 
after  ?"  said  Donham,  pointing  out  a  late  arrival,  who 
was  making  his  way  to  a  reserved  seat. 

"Well,  I  guess  he'll  get  what  he  came  after,"  re- 
turned Hayers.  "He  could  buy  the  whole  collection, 
if  it  struck  his  fancy." 

It  seemed  the  auctioneer  had  been  waiting  for  Cur- 
gan, for  he  now  mounted  the  platform  and  began  his 
announcements.  There  was  a  sudden  silence,  fol- 
lowed by  a  brisk  rustling  sound  as  the  leaves  of  many 


3n  tfie  ©fiaDoto  of  ©oB*         259 

catalogues  were  turned.  The  first  picture  was  a  small 
pastoral  by  McCord,  and,  after  a  little  skirmish  of 
bidding,  was  knocked  down  for  seventy-five  dollars. 

"A  ridiculously  low  price,''  insisted  Mr.  Sills.  "If 
that  canvas  had  some  foreigner's  name  tacked  to  it — 
isky  or  itti — it  would  easily  bring  ^ve  hundred  dol- 
lars. Yes,  if  an  American  artist  wants  to  sell  his 
pictures,  let  him  adopt  a  foreign  name — the  harder 
to  pronounce  the  better." 

The  sale  went  on  lively,  the  auctioneer  provoking 
the  bidders  into  occasional  ripples  of  mirth  by  his 
interpolated  witicisms.  Once  an  assistant  put  a  sea- 
scape upside  down  on  the  easel.  Mr.  Sills,  taking  his 
cue  from  the  catalogue,  rattled  on  glibly :  "  *A  Windy 
Day  off  Cape  Cod' — a  fine  bit  of  sea  and  sky — re- 
markable coloring — you  seem  to  feel  the  cool  breeze 
blowing  inland — observe  the  motion  of  the  water.  A 
unique  canvas  by  one  of  America's  most  noted  paint- 
ers. Everybody  will  have  at  any  cost  a  canvas  by 
Richards — what  am  I  bid? — I  wait  your  pleasure, 
gentlemen." 

Some  one  noticed  the  blunder  and  began  to  clap  his 
hands.  This  provoked  a  general  applause,  though 
many  failing  to  understand  why.  The  auctioneer 
turned  quickly  to  the  picture.  It  was  a  second  before 
he  perceived  the  trouble,  but  it  did  not  disturb  him 
in  the  least,  and  he  went  on  blandly,  "Ah,  you  see, 
gentlemen,  still  a  picture,  though  reversed.    Art  will 


260        M  tfte  SftaDoto  of  &on, 

tell — the  highest  test  of  skill — turn  it  how  you  will 
— the  picture's  there  still.  Beg  your  pardon,  not 
meaning  to  drop  into  poetry." 

The  picture  was  righted. 

"What  am  I  offered  for  this  seascape — a  perfect 
gem — fifty  dollars — thank  you — ^going — going " 

As  the  sale  proceeded,  Marvin  grew  uneasy  and 
nervous.  He  did  not  know  at  what  moment  his  pic- 
ture might  be  offered,  and  the  last  incident  filled  him 
with  apprehension.  Suppose  it  should  suit  the  whim 
of  Mr.  Sills  to  hold  his  picture  up  to  ridicule  ?  He 
excused  himself  and  found  a  seat  in  a  remote  comer. 
Here  he  had  been  a  long  time  it  seemed  to  him, 
anxiously  checking  the  pictures  on  the  list  as  they 
were  disposed  of,  when  he  caught  the  words:  '^The 
next  canvas,  gentlemen,  you'll  not  find  in  the  cata- 
logue. It  is  a  picture  we  have  been  asked  to  sell 
to-night  purely  on  its  merits.  The  artist  requesting 
that  his  name  be  withheld  till  after  the  sale.  I  have 
no  word  of  commendation  or  condemnation — judge 
for  yourselves." 

Marvin  shrank  back  into  his  seat,  his  heart  beat- 
ing like  a  trip-hammer ;  there  was  a  throbbing  in  his 
ears  that  almost  deafened  him.  He  closed  his  eyes; 
there  was  a  moment  of  expectant  silence  as  the  crowd 
waited  the  appearance  of  the  picture;  then  it  burst 
simultaneously  into  applause.  Marvin  trembled  as 
if  overcome  by  some  great  shock ;  he  opened  his  eyes 


In  tfie  ©ftatioto  of  &or),        261 

fearfully  and  glanced  toward  the  stage.  Through 
the  frame  of  red  plush  curtains,  miles  and  miles  of 
sunlit  prairie  lay  before  him;  limitless  distances  led 
the  eye  on  to  illusive  peaks  that  lifted  like  shadowy 
cloud  masses  against  the  far-off  horizon;  above,  glis- 
tened the  bright  noonday  sky,  clear,  blue,  of  infinite 
depths.  Across  it  moved  boiling  white  clouds,  their 
shadows  on  the  landscape  so  life-like  one  expected  to 
see  them  flit  along  the  canvas.  In  one  corner  rose 
the  outline  of  a  dug-out  against  a  fringe  of  cotton- 
woods,  and  a  plowman  in  the  open  breaking  sod.  As 
a  picture  it  was  compelling,  but  it  was  the  intangible 
something  that  it  suggested  that  held  the  thoughtful 
observer.  Here  was  thought,  emotion,  wrought  out 
in  color,  no  mere  trick  of  hand  or  brush.  It  was 
Nature  in  its  elemental  round  of  vital  activity — ^mov- 
ing calmly,  beautifully,  inevitably  toward  its  end,  pro- 
pelled by  the  law  within  it.  Man  was  but  a  part  of 
the  great  scheme,  insignificant  in  his  setting — an  atom 
set  adrift  between  the  great  blue  ocean  that  stretched 
above  him  and  the  limitless  green  one  that  spread  its 
gigantic  dimensions  beneath  his  feet.  He,  too,  fol- 
lowed the  law  within,  battling  here  alone  with  the 
greater,  colossal,  irresistible  forces  that  played  upon 
him  from  without. 

"Five  hundred  dollars,"  cried  a  voice  above  the  ap- 
plause. "Six  hundred."  "Seven  hundred."  Steadily 
the  bidding  rose  till  it  reached  six  thousand,  then 


262         an  tbt  ^beiDDto  of  &oi}. 

the  auctioneer's  voice  rang  out  in  the  tense  quiet, 
Going,  going,  gone !" — and  Marvin  knew  that  he  had 
a  market  There  was  a  keen  thrill  of  exultation  that 
comes  to  a  few  once  in  a  lifetime,  but  it  is  a  passing, 
evanescent  glow  of  spirit;  it  is  never  satisfied — it 
creates  a  hunger  for  what  it  feeds  on.  He  was  plan- 
ning greater  achievements  before  the  applause  died 
in  his  ear.  Truly  the  soul  of  the  ambitious  is  always 
to  be,  but  never  blest  Caught  up  in  a  fresh  flight 
of  his  fancy,  he  already  viewed  his  triumph  as  a 
thing  of  long  ago ;  became  oblivious  of  his  surround- 
ings. He  had  lost  interest  in  the  sale,  and  thought  it 
a  favoring  time  to  make  bis  escape.  He  hurried 
toward  the  door.  Here  he  was  intercepted.  '*0h,  Mr. 
Gamer,"  some  one  called ;  "there  are  some  gentlemen 
who  would  like  to  speak  to  you."  Before  he  could 
realize  what  it  meant,  he  found  himself  jostled  into 
an  ante-room  and  was  experiencing  the  acme  of  nine- 
teenth century  fame — an  interview.  A  half  dozen 
reporters  were  plying  him  with  questions.  But  he 
did  not  mind.  He  knew  that  these  men  could  do 
more  in  the  next  twelve  hours  to  make  him  a  reputa- 
tion than  all  the  unaided  efforts  of  a  lifetime.  That 
thousands  would  read  their  lurid  reports  and  flock 
to  gaze  at  his  canvases  who  only  yesterday  passed 
them  with  unseeing  glance.  He  had  thought  it  out 
long  ago.  Perhaps  there  was  a  little  of  Barnum  in 
his  philosophy;  and  his  reflections  on  the  success  of 


3n  tfie  ©ftaDoto  of  (SoD*         263 

the  patent  medicine  "ad"  had  also  helped  him  to 
his  conclusion.  The  American  people  were  slow  to 
recognize  merit,  but  quick  to  reward  notoriety.  He 
had  meant  to  combine  the  two,  he  had  succeeded. 
But  it  now  seemed  to  him  very  foolish  that  the  public 
should  care  to  know  about  his  personal  habits,  his 
past  life,  how  he  happened  to  become  a  painter — how 
he  dressed,  ate,  slept,  and  a  thousand  other  insignifi- 
cant things.  But  he  knew  they  w^ould  find  more  satis- 
faction reading  about  him  as  a  man  who  had  sold  a 
canvas  for  six  thousand  dollars  than  in  the  art  of  his 
pictures.  The  money  value  of  his  art  gave  it  merit, 
gave  him  distinction  in  the  mind  of  the  crowd.  So 
he  answered  questions  graciously  with  all  due  mod- 
esty, knowing  full  well  the  consequences,  and  the  con- 
sequences were  not  disappointing.  The  papers  the 
next  morning  blazed  with  catch-the-eye  headlines ;  "A 
Cowboy  Artist's  Jump  into  Fame,"  "An  Artistic 
Coup,"  "An  Unknown  Western  Painter  Takes  Fifth 
Avenue  by  Storm." 

The  week  was  largely  given  up  to  interviewers  and 
photographers.  For  some  months,  Sunday  editions 
and  monthlies  bristled  with  his  portrait  and  repro- 
ductions of  his  noted  picture.  Soon  the  shop  window^s 
were  filled  with  cheap  lithographs  of  himself  and  his 
canvas — were  scattered  broadcast  over  the  country. 
He  was  the  artistic  hit  of  the  season.  Orders  rolled 
in  that  would  take  him  years  to  fill.    There  was  but 


264        In  tbt  ^bnDoto  of  <0oD* 

one  thing  for  him  to  do— work  while  his  star  was  in 
the  ascendant 

"When  Marvin  called  on  Mr.  Sills  and  asked  for 
the  name  of  the  purchaser  of  "At  the  Edge  of  the 
Prairie"  and  learned  that  it  was  Mr.  Laramore,  a 
queer  expression  came  onto  his  face. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Laramore  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  everybody  knows  Mr.  Laramore.  He's  a 
wealthy  philanthropist,  and  has  to  his  credit  the 
discovery  of  more  geniuses  than  any  other  man  in 
l^ew  York.    It's  a  kind  of  hobby  with  him." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Marvin.  He  turned  and  walked 
thoughtfully  into  the  street 


9n  ttt  @)t)aDoto  o{  <S^dO*         265 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A  few  days  after  the  incidents  just  recorded,  Mar- 
vin called  on  Miss  Wondells.  He  had  an  engagement 
to  accompany  her  to  the  opera  to  hear  a  new  singer 
who  was  to  make  her  debut  in  America.  They  had 
become  good  chums  by  this  time,  and  she  received 
him  in  mock  awe. 

"Mr.  Xoted  Artist,  I  think  you  might  have  given 
your  friends  an  opportunity  to  share  your  triumph," 
she  said,  deprecatingly. 

"I  was  not  sure  it  would  not  be  a  humiliation." 

"But  your  friends  would  have  been  glad  to  share 
that.  You  will  become  a  regular  lion,  now — but  you 
won't  forget  your  old  friends,  will  you  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I'd  find  much  pleasure  in  being  a 
lion,  if  I  might.  And  I  haven't  so  many  friends  that 
I  can  afford  to  forget  even  one,"  he  said,  a  little  sadly. 

"I  don't  think  you  appreciate  your  fame.  You 
don't  enthuse  a  bit." 

"Fame,  as  you  call  it,  is  something  to  look  forward 
to — it's  somehow  unsatisfying  in  the  attainment." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly  for  an  instant  and 
said:  "Mr.  Garner,  may  I  ask  you  a  question — a 


266         jn  tht  ©baooto  of  ©oD, 

personal  question — IVe  often  wished  to.  Now,  that 
we  are  such  old  friends,  you  won't  mind  V* 

"Why,  I'll  be  glad  for  you  to  ask  me  anything — ^you 
care  to." 

"I've — IVe  had  a  suspicion  that  your  life  has  not 
been  happy — that  you've  had  some  hard  experiences 
— there — I  hope  I  do  not  offend  you  ?" 

"No,  you  do  not  offend.  I'm  not  sensitive — that 
way,  and  I  have  had  some  unhappy  experiences,"  he 
aaid  calmly. 

"Oh,  I  was  sure  you  had.  That's  one  reason  I 
wrote  you.  I  told  mother  you  had  suffered — ^you 
couldn't  have  painted  the  *Blizzard'  if  you  had  not. 
I  am  glad  you  have  arrived  and  that  it  is  all  over. 
Tell  me  about  it,  if  you  don't  mind  ?" 

"If  you'd  really  care — but  you'd  find  it  very  un- 
interesting, I  fear.'* 

"I'm  sure  I  would  not" 

Marvin  was  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  confide  in 
some  one.  To-night  he  was  in  a  reminiscent  mood. 
A  reaction  had  set  in  from  the  late  elation.  As  he 
looked  back  it  all  seemed  so  futile.  He  found  that  he 
still  was  the  same  old  self,  carried  about  with  him 
the  same  sad,  hungry,  restless  world  within.  His 
parents  could  never  know  of  his  success,  possibly 
would  not  approve  if  they  could,  and  it  seemed  that 
he  was  no  nearer  the  realization  of  the  secret  hope 
that  had  led  him  to  the  city,  the  hope  that  had  made 


3n  tfte  ©ftaDoto  of  (SoD»         267 

his  art  a  means  to  an  end.  So  it  was  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy  pleasure  that  he  gave  his  friend  bits  of 
his  life  from  the  time  of  his  first  visit  to  Xew  York 
up  to  the  last,  omitting  only  reference  to  his  meetings 
with  the  Laramores.  In  concluding  he  said:  "It 
doesn't  seem  possible  that  I  am  the  same  person  that 
five  years  ago  was  picking  cotton  on  a  little  farm  in 
Texas." 

"Oh,  how  you  must  have  suffered,"  cried  Miss 
Mabel.  "And  did  no  one  in  all  that  time  give  you  a 
word  of  encouragement  ?" 

Marvin  looked  at  his  companion  a  moment  ques- 
tioningly.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  confide  in  her 
fully.  She  might  be  able  to  advise  him  as  to  his 
future  course.  "Yes,  there  was  a  gentleman  and  his 
daughter.  They  live  in  the  city — it  was  he  that 
bought  my  pictures."  Then  he  told  of  their  meeting 
in  Texas,  of  the  visits  to  his  attic  studio,  of  Miss 
Laramore's  ambitions. 

"And  the  young  lady — has  she  returned  ?" 

"I  do  not  know — I  have  not  tried  to  communicate 
with  them.  It  is  about  that  I  would  like  your  ad- 
vice." 

"You  would  like  to  meet  Miss  Laramore  ?" 

"I  would." 

A  sudden  illumination  came  into  Miss  Mabel's 
face,  causing  it  to  pale.  She  quickly  recovered.  "Mr. 
Gamer,  I  think  I  know  what  the  trouble  is  now — ^why 


268         3n  tfie  ©hatjoto  of  &on. 

your  succr—  i-  ili.-:ippoiming.  You  are  in  love— 
with  Miss  l.araiiiort'  ^'* 

Man'in  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  am — more  than  I  can  tell.  It's  the  only  thing 
that  seems  worth  while,"  he  said  earnestly.  "You 
are  my  friend — tell  me  what  I  must  do  ?" 

Miss  Wondells  was  conscious  of  a  strange  sensation 
at  the  heart,  of  dismissing  forever  possibilities  that 
had  been  pleasant  She  sat  a  moment  very  quiet, 
looking  on  the  floor  as  if  considering  an  answer  to 
the  other's  question.  Then  she  rose.  "We  must 
bo  going — we'll  be  late  if  we  don't  hurry.  We  will 
talk  it  over  on  the  way,"  she  said  in  an  even  voice. 
But  Marvin  thought  he  detected  an  almost  impercept- 
ible restraint  in  her  manner  that  caused  him  to  won- 
der.     Could  it  be  possible  that  she  cared  ? 

"What  you  must  do  is  to  write  Mr.  Laramore 
thanking  him  for  the  interest  he  has  taken  in  you. 
He  will  then  likely  invite  you  to  call  if  he  desires  to 
renew  the  acquaintance,"  she  said,  sinking  back  com- 
fortably in  the  cab.  "Miss  Laramore  may  have  re- 
turned. You  could  hardly  expect  her  to  write  you  or 
make  any  advances.  I'm  sure,  though,  she's  still  in- 
terested— perhaps  thinks  more  of  you  than  you  sus- 
pect; yet  it  is  possible  she  has  forgotten  you  —  six 
years  is  a  long  time  for  a  girl  to  remember  a  passing 
acquaintance." 

They  were  late  in  reaching  the  opera  house.     As 


In  tht  @i)aoobi  of  0dOi«        26d 

they  settled  in  their  seats  the  curtain  went  up,  reveal- 
ing a  wonderful  woodland  scene ;  the  German  king  on 
his  throne,  holding  court.  It  was  a  bit  of  medieval 
world,  suggestive  of  wild  revels — comedy,  tragedy. 
The  swell  of  the  orchestration,  the  deep  baritone 
voices,  now  rising  clear,  vibrant,  now  blending  in 
unison  with  the  instruments,  pulsed  through  the  wide 
spaces.  Below,  in  dim  outline,  could  be  caught 
glimpses  of  white  shoulders,  exquisite  costumes,  a 
multitude  of  heads,  here  and  there  quivering  jewels 
like  fireflies  in  passage. 

Marvin  remembered  how  he  had  been  moved  the 
first  time  he  heard  grand  opera ;  but  to-night  he  found 
himself  listening  indiiferently.  Then  he  fell  to  crit- 
icizing the  scenery,  insisting  that  the  scene-painter 
was  a  real  artist;  that  people  did  not  value  him  as 
they  should.  Finally  he  turned  to  the  singers  and 
began  to  give  attention.  "When  does  the  new  singer, 
Miss  Darmstad,  come  on  ?  She's  Elsa,  is  she  not  ? — 
she's " 

"She's  coming  now  —  listen  —  the  king  summons 
her."  Marvin  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  wing  ex- 
pectantly. A  sudden,  strange  presentiment  seized 
him.  What  if  it  should  be  she  ?  "What  is  her  real 
name  ? — Miss  Dreamstad's " 

"I  don't  know  —  look  —  that's  she  —  that's  Elsa. 
Isn't  she  beautiful  ?    Listen,  she's  going  to  sing." 

Marvin's  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  prima  donna, 


270         3n  tbt  ^i)aDotu  of  000* 

who  now  stood  with  head  drooping  sorrowfully  be- 
fore the  king.  There  was  a  swift  quickening  of  the 
pulses,  followed  by  a  sickening  disappointment.  It 
could  not  be  she.  How  could  that  lovely  woman  be 
the  girl  he  had  told  good-bye  beneath  the  summer 
blaze  in  the  cotton-field  ?  Then  she  began  to  sing — 
in  a  limpid,  flute-like  voice  she  told  with  simplo 
pathos  the  story  of  her  vision.  Marvin  leaned  for- 
ward eagerly,  forgetting  everything  but  tlic  voice — 
it  brought  back  vividly  the  day  he  painted  at  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  the  meeting  in  the  depths  of  the  trees, 
the  day  in  the  attic,  the  white  cotton-field,  the  yellow 
sunshine.    It  was  the  same  voice — it  was  she. 

Miss  Wendells  noticed  his  rapt,  ecstatic  look. 
"You  recognize  her?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure — it's  Miss  Laramore.  I  could 
never  forget  that  voice." 

"How  wonderful — how  romantic.  You  must  let 
her  know.  Listen.  She  is  great — she'll  make  a  hit — 
wait  till  she  goes  off." 

Marvin  straightened  up.  He  must  master  his  emo- 
tions. He  felt  an  insane  impulse  to  shout  her  name, 
to  cast  himself  headlong  toward  her.  Every  word 
that  dropped  from  her  lips  sent  vibrant  waves  ting- 
ling through  his  body.  When  she  at  last  came  to 
the  prayer  song,  he  was  moved  uncontrollably.  He 
bowed  his  face  in  his  hands —  felt  the  hot  tears  trick- 
ling down  his  cheeks.     Then  the  curtain  rolled  to; 


3n  tfte  ©ijaDoto  of  ©oD*         271 

the  lights  flashed  up ;  the  house  burst  into  a  storm  of 
applause.  His  companion  was  frantically  clapping 
her  hands,  waving  her  handkerchief,  fan. 

^^She's  made  a  hit — she's  made  a  hit.  They'll  force 
her  to  give  an  encore.  Yes ;  the  curtain  is  going  up." 
Her  hands  dropped  limp  into  her  lap,  and  she  sank 
back  panting.  *'0h,  it's  foolish  to  go  crazy  like  this 
— but  how  can  you  help  it  ?  She's  great — I'm  so  glad. 
There  she  is  —  listen."  Elsa  repeated  the  prayer 
song;  then  the  applause  was  terrific.  Again  and 
again  she  was  called  before  the  curtain,  nor  would 
the  crowd  desist  till  wearied  into  silence.  A  hush  fell 
on  the  house,  then  it  broke  into  a  babel  of  voices; 
the  men,  like  strange  beetles,  began  to  move  in  a 
steady  stream  toward  the  foyer. 

"Send  in  your  card — write  something  that  will  re- 
mind her — hurry — you'll  have  plenty  time " 

"Would  you — would  you " 

"Hurry — hurry — she'll  be.  glad." 

Thus  urged,  Marvin  wrote  on  his  card:  "Dear 
Prima  Donna,  If  you  remember  the  old  oak  tree,  the 
cotton  pen,  the  attic  and  a  Texas  artist,  he  would  be 
honored  to  renew  the  acquaintance,"  found  an  usher 
and  sent  it  to  her. 

He  hastened  back  to  Miss  Mabel  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement, anxiety.  To  hide  his  agitation  he  flung 
himself  recklessly  into  conversation.  Small  talk 
came  hard  to  him,  but  he  now  forced  himself  to  it. 


27i         3n  tfte  Sfiaooto  of  ©oD* 

The  intermission  seemed  like  hours.  At  last  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  the  next  act  At  the  close  there  was 
again  prolonged  applause,  encores,  and  the  final  fall 
of  the  curtain.  Then  Marvin's  heart  jumped  into 
his  mouth,  he  was  conscious  of  waves  of  heat  encir- 
cling his  body,  as  he  saw  an  usher  approaching.  He 
grasped  the  note,  and  read :  "Yes,  I  remember.  How 
kind  of  you  to  recognize  me.  The  bearer  will  conduct 
you  to  me  at  the  end  of  the  next  act." 

He  handed  it  to  Miss  Wondells.  "Oh,  how  very 
wonderful,"  she  cried  when  she  had  glanced  it  over ; 
''and  how  lovely  of  her." 

At  last  he  rose  to  go;  "I  won't  be  long,"  he  told 
Miss  Wondells,  reassuringly. 

"Good  luck — ^good-bye,'  she  said  encouragingly. 

Following  the  guide  through  interminable  pass- 
ages, he  at  length  was  ushered  into  a  dressing-room. 
Miss  Laramore  and  a  gentleman,  whom  he  recognized 
as  her  father,  stood  waiting  him. 

"How  kind  of  you,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  like  heavenly  music,  offering  her  hand. 
Marvin  grasped  it,  pressed  it  passionately,  cruelly, 
forgetting  himself,  her  father. 

"And  how  good  of  you,"  he  returned  ardently. 

"You  remember  papa  ?  This  is  Mr.  Garner,  papa 
— the  artist  we  met  in  Texas." 

"I  am  glad  to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Gamer.    I  see 


Sn  m  S)j)aDoto  of  ©oD^         273 

in  the  papers  that  you  are  not  disappointing  my  ex- 
pectations." 

"And  I  owe  what  little  success  I  have  had  to  you, 
though  I  have  known  it  only  the  last  few  weeks.  I 
thank  you  sincerely,  Mr.  Laramore." 

"Mildred  enjoyed  your  coup  at  Mendelssohn — that 
was  a  great  idea." 

"And  I  have  my  revenge  to-night,  Miss  Mildred, 
You've  had  a  great  triumph.  I  wish  I  could  find 
words  to  congratulate  you." 

Mr.  Laramore  became  interested  in  some  stage 
property  just  outside  the  door.  And  the  two,  left, 
alone,  fell  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  they  looked  up 
frankly  into  each  other's  eyes.  They  knew  now  that 
they  loved  each  other.  It  was  as  if  the  compelling  in- 
telligence flashed  from  soul  to  soul. 

"Miss  Mildred,  it  is  so  good  of  you,"  he  repeated 
a  little  indefinitely,  but  earnestly  enough. 

"And  so  kind  of  you,"  returned  Miss  Mildred, 
equally  indefinitely  and  earnestly. 

Then  conversation  became  easy.  "Can't  you  dine 
with  father  and  me  after  the  opera  ?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"I'm  afraid  not — I'd  be  glad  to — but  I'm  with  a 
friend " 

"Why,  bring  him  along — we'll  be  glad  to  have  him 
join  us " 

"Oh— it's  —it's " 


274         9n  t})t  ^OaDotai  of  <SoO. 

"Well,  bring  him.  We'll  wait  for  you  at  the  stage 
entrance  on  Thirty-ninth  Street — there's  the  signal — 
good-bye." 

As  Marvin  was  telling  Miss  Mabel  good-night,  he 
felt  a  sudden  uneasy  tenderness  for  her;  seemed  to 
realize  how  kind  she  had  been  to  him,  and  felt  a 
sense  of  guilt  as  if  he  had  not  been  grateful. 

"Miss  Mabel,"  he  said  impulsively;  "how  good 
and  kind  you  are.  How  can  I  ever  show  my  appre- 
ciation— I  do  appreciate " 

There  was  a  smile  —  a  pathetic,  understanding 
smile  on  her  lips  as  she  answered  with  gentle  fervor : 
"We'll  just  continue  to  be  good  friends.  I'm  so  glad 
you've  found  Miss  Laramore.    Good  night." 

She  stood  as  on  the  night  of  his  first  visit  and 
smiled  and  waved  to  him  as  the  elevator  dropped  from 
sight  Then  she  stood  some  minutes  longer  staring 
into  the  empty  space. 


3n  tfie  SfiaDoto  of  ©oD*         275 


CHAPTEK   VII. 

A  soft  radiance  still  lingered  low  on  the  west — a 
halo  above  a  lone  black  peak  that  here  lifted  its 
scraggy  head — when  the  carriage  turned  from  the 
steep  ascent  and  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  brow 
of  Devil's  Backbone.  The  occupants  were  evidently- 
interested  in  the  scene  that  spread  around  them,  for 
the  man  directed  the  attention  of  his  companion  to 
different  points  of  the  view.  It  was  Marvin  bringing 
his  wife  to  the  scene  of  his  boyhood. 

The  face  of  the  landscape  had  not  changed.  There 
were  the  same  fields,  the  same  hills,  the  same  yawning 
gullies  and  ravines.  Diamond,  the  same  ragged  vil- 
lage, set  on  its  high  perch,  indifferently,  imperturb- 
ably.  Somewhere  in  the  dark  the  yelping  of  a  vigil- 
ant dog  announced  their  arrival  on  the  one  desolate 
street.  Here  and  there  a  figure  bulked  against  the 
dim  light  of  an  open  door,  a  head  darkened  a  window. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  Aunt  Molly's  cottage 
— the  only  home  that  Marvin  could  remember.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  lights  streaming  from  the  win- 
dows and  doors,  and  when  he  cried  out  the  accus- 
tomed  "Hello!"   these   were   magically  filled   with 


276         3n  tbt  ©ftaooto  of  ©oD* 

peering  faces.  A  tall,  bearded  man  came  to  the  gate 
and  greeted  him. 

"Does  Aunt  Molly  live  here  ?"  asked  Marvin. 

"Not  any  more,  I  hope/  said  the  man ;  "she's  been 
dead  over  a  year."  As  the  other  remained  silent,  he 
added :  "Thought  maybe  you  wanted  something  at  the 
store?" 

''No;  who  lives  here?" 

"Me— Bill  Hinkle." 

"Bill  Hinkle,  once  of  Whiterock?" 

"Well,  I  guess  you'r  right.  I  moved  from  there 
*bout  three  year  ago." 

"Do  you  remember  Parson  Gamer  ?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  so.  Whiterock  never  had  any- 
thing like  him  before  er  since.  But  you'll  not  find 
him  yere — nobody  ain't  heard  from  him  since  his 
folks  died,  seven  er  eight  years  ago.  He  went  to  New 
York  to  go  into  the  picher  bizness." 

"Hinkle,  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

The  other  stepped  back  so  tliat  the  light  would  fall 
on  the  stranger. 

"No,  darned  if  I  do.  I've  been  wonderin'  who  it 
could  be  that  knowed  me  at  Whiterock." 

"I'm  Garner." 

"You  ain't  Parson  Garner  ?" 

"No;  just  plain  Garner." 

"Well,  I'm  darned — boggin'  yer  pardon,  lady — I'd 
never  knowed  you  with  the  beard.     Come  right  in. 


In  tfie  SftaDoto  of  (SoD*         277 

It  shore  do  beat  the  Jews,  you  turnin'  up  this  way. 
Never  expected  to  set  eyes  on  you  agin." 

"This  is  my  wife." 

"I'm  shore  powerful  glad  to  see  her — fetch  her 
right  in." 

That  night,  sitting  out  in  the  moonlight,  the  grey 
valley  yawning  beneath  them,  stretching  mystically 
to  the  black  jagged  line  that  lifted  on  the  steely  sky, 
Marvin  learned  how  Hinkle  had  moved  into  the  vil- 
lage, bought  his  father's  old  store,  and,  when  Aunt 
Molly  became  helpless,  had  bought  the  home  and 
cared  for  her  until  she  died.  He  dwelt  with  pride 
on  the  success  of  the  business  venture  and  the  in- 
crease in  his  family. 

"I  guess  the  good  people  are  still  trying  to  save 
you,  Hinkle  ?" 

Sh ! — sh ! "  hissed  Hinkle,  as  if  in  alarm.    "I 

ain't  a  inferdel  no  more.  I've  done  been  converted 
an'  saved." 

"I'd  hardly  have  believed  it." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It  happened  this  way. 
Tommy  died — you  remember  Tommy — the  brightest 
little  feller  that  was  ever  born  of  a  woman.  It  al- 
ways happens  that  way.  Well,  Nancy  couldn't  seem 
to  git  over  it.  An'  folks  tol'  her  the  only  chanct  she 
had  of  seein'  him  agin  was  to  be  baptized  an'  jine  the 
church.  She'd  'a'  done  anything  to  see  Tommy  agin, 
so,  knowin'  it  wouldn't  do  her  no  harm,  an'  might 


278         3n  tfte  SbaDoto  of  &oD. 

ease  her  niin',  I  toF  her  to  go  an'  do  it,  an'  she  did. 
Then,  when  I  went  to  storekeepin'  I  soon  foun'  it 
wouldn't  hurt  my  bizness  any  to  be  religus.  So,  one 
protracted  meetin'  I  perfessed — an'  I'm  now  a  deacon 
in  the  church  an'  pass  the  hat  fer  the  collections. 
This  is  a  powerful  religus  community " 

"Did  you  find  it  difficult  to  make  a  choice  of 
churches  ?" 

"No ;  not  yere.  You  see,  the  Baptist  air  powerful 
strong,  an'  have  it  all  their  way,  so  when  Parson 
Chase  preached  onct  saved  always  saved,  I  liked  that 
an'  jined  him.  I  didn't  care  to  be  put  to  the  trouble 
of  doin'  it  over  agin  every  protracted  meetiu'.  You 
see,  I'm  on  the  safe  side  if  there's  nothin'  in  it,  an', 
as  I  said,  it  don't  hurt  my  bizness." 

Marvin  thought  he  detected  a  queer,  sly  twinkle  in 
the  other's  eyes,  but  it  might  have  Ix^n  a  trick  of  the 
moonlight.  But  the  backsliding  of  his  friend  caused 
him  a  keen  disappointment.  He  had  often  thought 
of  him  as  a  rare  character,  with  a  courage  and  hon- 
esty that  would  hold  him  true  to  his  convictions. 

The  next  day  as  Hinkle  was  showing  him  through 
the  store,  Marvin  sat  down  on  the  counter  facing  the 
open  back  door.  He  no  longer  heeded  the  words  of 
his  talkative  host,  as  his  eyes  drifted  over  the 
stretches  of  fields  and  woods.  In  his  mind  he  re-en- 
acted other  scenes  that  had  transpired  here.  The 
past  came  to  him  as  a  dream.    He  found  it  difficult  to 


I 
I 

In  tbt  SfjaDotai  of  ©oD*         279 

identify  Limself  with  that  other  personality  who  had 
sat  here  and  looked  into  the  radiant  face,  listened  to 
the  gentle,  wistful  voice,  of  his  father.  Yet  all  the 
years  life  had  gone  on  her  quietly,  inevitably,  relent- 
lessly. The  thought  filled  him  with  a  vague  disquiet. 
Life,  after  all,  was  an  accident — the  toss  of  a  coin. 
Here  or  there — heads  or  tail — a  span — and  then — it 
didn't  matter. 

There  was  a  heavy  tread  on  the  porch,  and  a  huge 
form  darkened  the  doorway. 

'^Hello,  Hinkle.  Goin'  to  have  another  swinger," 
the  speaker  roared  with  forceful  cheerfulness,  mop- 
ping his  brow. 

"Why,  good  mornin'.  Squire." 

Marvin  turned  and  looked  at  the  newcomer.  Then 
he  sprang  from  the  counter  and  grasped  his  hand 
heartily. 

"Will  Oliver,  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

Oliver  stood  staring,  for  the  once  struck  dumb.  He 
failed  to  recognize  the  stranger,  but  it  was  painfully 
evident  that  he  did  not  wish  to  confess  it. 

"I'm  shore  powerful  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said, 
holding  Marvin's  hand  in  a  vise-like  grip.  "Jest 
wait  a  minit — I  know  you — would  'a'  knowed  you 
in  Africa.  I  can't  jest  git  the  name — wait  a 
minit " 

"Well,  you  ought  to  git  it — you'r  talkin'  'im  up 
often  enough,"  said  Hinkle. 


V 
280        M  tht  ^i)aiioto  of  <£^oD. 

"Jest  wait  a  minit — of  course  I  know'  im— know 
'im  as  well  as  I  know  myself — why,  it's — it's  right 
on  the  end  of  my  tongue " 

"It's  Parson  Gamer — you'd  never  guess  'im  with 
the  beard  on." 

Oliver  blinked  and  gasped  and  stared  dumb- 
founded. 

"Holy  Moses,  if  I  don't  believe  it  is,  shore's  I'm 
alive.    Where  in  the  world  did  you  drop  from  ?" 

He  presently  led  Marvin  across  the  street  to  the 
shade  of  a  lone  live-oak  for  a  confidential  "confab." 

Oliver  had  remained  on  his  little  farm  all  the 
years,  but  latterly  had  managed  to  have  himself 
elected  Justice  of  the  Peace.  He  was  serving  his 
second  term  and,  elated  with  his  growing  popularity, 
was  aspiring  to  become  County  Judge. 

"You  still  find  time  to  preach.  Will  ?" 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  I  ain't  preachin'  no  more.  I 
kinder  lost  faith  in  religin  after  the  way  they  treated 
you  at  Harris ;  then  I  got  into  politicks,  an'  a  feller 
don't  want  to  be  too  religus  when  he  gits  mixed  up  in 
them.  Then  the  Methodist  was  gittin'  pretty  weak 
'bout  yere,  an'  the  Baptist — well,  they  'bout  run 
things — an'  I  give  up  my  license  an'  quit.  I  'tend 
the  barbecues,  picnics  an'  protracted  meetin's  an'  jest 
talk  an'  mix  with  the  people.  If  it's  a  Baptist,  I'm 
a  Baptist ;  if  it's  a  Campbellite,  why  I'm  a  Campbell- 
ite;  an'  if  it's  a  Methodist,  why,  I'm  a  Methodist. 


3n  tfie  *f)aDoto  of  <SoD^         28i 

Don't  know  as  it  makes  any  difference,  nohow,  an' 
I'm  takin'  Paul's  advice — all  things  to  all  men  to 
win  a  few — an'  it  works.  Yes ;  I  know  the  lick,  an' 
if  yers  truly  ain't  'lected  County  Jedge,  there'll  be  a 
tic.  You  ought  to  'tend  a  Fourth  of  July  an'  hear 
me  speak — I  can  whoop  up  the  boys  to  beat  the 

band " 

"So  you  are  not  burying  your  talent,  after  all  ?" 
Oliver  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then  he  looked  up 
sheepishly. 

"Parson,  you  ain't  goin'  to  hoi'  that  agin  me  ?"  he 
said. 

The  little  unkcpt  graveyard  slept  peacefully  on  the 
hillside.  The  whitewashed  pailings  that  enclosed  it 
glared  white  agaiust  the  masses  of  green  within ;  the 
grey  headstones,  time-stained,  were  mottled  with  the 
shadows  of  slow-moving  boughs.  Deep  in  the  tangle 
of  grass  and  creepers,  rose  and  honeysuckle  clambered 
in  wild  abandon,  breathing  an  incense  upon  the  air, 
IS  if  from  an  unseen  altar. 

Marvin  and  his  wife,  knee-deep  in  the  bracken, 
stood  with  bowed  heads  before  a  shaft  of  grey  granite. 
They  read  the  simple  inscription  on  its  base:  "Father 
and  Mother."  When  at  last  Marvdn  looked  up  he 
was  alone.  Then  he  knelt  at  the  grave,  the  rank  grass 
closing  above  him  caressingly.  His  soul  trembled  in 
the  fulness  of  memory.    He  seemed  to  sense  the  pres- 


282^         3n  tfte  SIjaDoto  of  &on, 

sence  of  the  dead,  feel  again  the  potency  of  their 
inflimce. 

"Mother,  mother !"  burst  from  his  lips. 

Man  may  go  far,  and  he  may  find  all-encompassing 
love,  but  never  will  he  find  love  like  the  love  of  a 
mother. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  unfathomable  sunlit 
spaces,  searched  the  unanswering  depths  —  the  God 
who  once  spake  there  spake  no  more.  He  realized 
how  far  he  had  travelled — so  far  there  was  no  return. 
A  vague  uneasiness  seized  upon  his  soul,  mastered 
him. 

"Mildred,  Mildred !"  he  cried  fearfully. 

An  arm  stole  gently  about  his  neck.  For  a  long 
time  they  sat  in  silence  looking  down  the  valley,  into 
the  sky.  Then  he  drew  her  lips  to  his,  looked  deep 
into  her  eyes. 

"Honey,  I  feel  I  ought  to  preach " 

"You  do ;  your  pictures  are  sermons." 

"It  seems  to  me  the  world  still  gropes  in  the 
shadow  of  God — I'd  lead  it  into  His  sunlight." 


THE   END. 


Love  and  Lonesomeness 

At  the  Edge  of  the  Yellow  Sky 

By  GUY  ARTHUR  JAMIESON 

^^IV/rR.  JAMIESON  has  done  an  admirable  bit 
^^^  of  work  in  his  brief,  vivid  novel  of  the 
Southwest.  The  land  of  wide  expanses  and  wonder- 
ful sunsets  has  been  presented  in  a  series  of  pictures 
worthy  of  the  best  discriptive  writers  in  America,  and 
the  characters — a  few  in  number — are  as  real  as  your 
next-door  neighbor,  without  being  nearly  so  com- 
monplace. There  is  a  little  family  group— an  old 
man,  a  young  lady  and  a  boy — whose  habitat  seems 
to  be  the  Western  trail;  and  atone  of  their  stopping 
places  a  young  ranchman  comes  into  their  lives. 
There  are  a  few  little  episodes  of  the  Western  vari- 
ety, ending  with  avowals  of  love  on  parts  of  the  man 
and  the  maid.  It  is  slight  enough  as  to  theme,  but 
the  artistic  handling  wuU  appeal  to  every  reader  who 
possesses  a  love  of  poetic  writing,  and  a  fondness  for 
unique  yet  natural  people.  **Tom''  is  a  boy  after 
James  Whitcomb  Rile/s  heart— an  odd  litde  chap 
whose  exuberance  in  the  mere  thought  of  living  finds 
outlets  in  a  variety  of  ways  that  will  make  the  oldest 
reader  feel  young  again.  Stimer,  the  hero  of  the 
tale,  is  such  a  chap  as  Wister  might  have  drawn,  and 
Beth  is  the  maidenly  yet  womanly  figure  who  softens 
the  many  hard  phases  of  life  which  surrounds  her. 
And  there  is  Cap,  the  dog,  who  gives  his  life  to  save 
his  master.  It  is  all  as  simple  as  the  classics  in  liter- 
ature, yet  picturesque  almost  beyond  comparison 
with  any  of  the  novels  of  the  day." — Globe  Democrat, 
St,  Louis. 

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^otoer  of  Jnnocenct 

By  ARTHUR  J.  WESTERMAYR 

In  Francesca  we  have  a  character  unusual  in  modern 
fiction.  She  is  a  Venetian  by  birth  ;  raised  in  the  slums  of 
the  back  streets  of  Venice,  she  i;  taken  from  an  artist's 
studio,  where  she  has  posed  as  a  child  model,  by  a  student 
of  heredity,  for  the  purpose  of  experiment,  by  whom  she  is 
placed  in  refined  and  elevating  environment.  Though  of 
evil  parentage  she  grows  to  womanhood  gracefully,  and  her 
beauty  of  form  and  teature  is  not  less  remarkable  and  striking 
than  that  of  her  moral  character.  An  evil  deed,  committed 
without  her  fault,  tears  her  away  from  her  pleasant  sur- 
roundings, and  when  next  we  meet  her  she  is  in  Munich, 
the  great  art  center  of  Europe,  where  she  becomes  acquainted 
with  William  Blake,  an  American  artist,  for  whose  painting 
"Power  of  Innocence'*  she  poses,  thereby  bringmg  him 
fame  and  fortune.  Their  love  is  overshadowed  by  Fran- 
cesca's  wrong,  and  after  passing  through  a  terrible  ordeal, 
she  rises  above  selfishness  and  makes  the  supreme  sacrifice. 
Her  life  and  character  are  a  final  refutation  of  crime  by 
heredity. 

The  character  of  Helen,  the  childhood  playmate  of  the 
artist,  is  developed  unconventionally  and  along  untried  lines, 
and  affords  a  psychological  undercurrent  whose  worth  as  a 
contribution  to  the  whole  theme  cannot  be  overestimated. 
To  prove  that  one  may  love  and  yet  not  know  it  until  a 
crucial  event  brings  consciousness  of  its  existence,  is  the 
purpose  of  this  uncommon  character. 

In  lighter  vein,  yet  with  touches  of  pathos  which  win  our 
sympathies  at  once,  is  drawn  Raymond  Sylvester,  the  self- 
constituted  cynic,  who  thinks  himself  cold-blooded  and  hard- 
hearted, but  who  is  in  fact  a  warm-hearted,  generous  friend 
and  typical  Englishman. 

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A  Drama  in  Sunshine 

By  HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 

Author  of  "Brothers/*  "Her  Son/'  Etc.,  Etc. 


SOUTHERN  California— the  land  of  flowers  and 
sunshine — supply s  the  stage  upon  which  this  won- 
derful drama  unfolds  itself.  It  is  the  modem  story 
of  the  effect  of  sudden  wealth  upon  two  comparatively 
simple  lives  and  characters,  yet  with  a  wealth  of  new 
developments  and  details  which  b  certain  to  make  a  per- 
sonal appeal  to  every  reader. 

When  his  fortune  is  made,  the  man  discovers  that  the 
simple,  whole-hearted  little  woman,  who  has  been  his 
great  support  and  incentive  in  the  struggle,  is  no  longer 
his  ideal;  and  she  discovers  that  the  successful  man, 
proud  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires,  no  longer  at- 
tracts her  as  when,  striving  and  struggling  against  big 
disadvantages  he  found  in  her  sympathy  and  quiet  sim- 
plicity the  necessary  encouragement  which  gave  him  his 
final  success. 

He  turns  his  affection  upon  a  brilliant,  vivacious, 
woman  of  the  world — his  wife's  cousin;  while,  '/vith  hidden 
strain  of  Castilian  blood  changing  her  love  to  hate,  the  wife 
finds  an  outlet  for  her  slighted  affection  in  the  intimacy 
of  an  Italian  Prince,  suave,  polished   and  sympathetic. 

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THE   LIGHT 
OF    STARS 

BY 

BATTIED.BOHANNON 

12mo  Cloth -$1.00  net 

"...  Revolves  round  the  love  of  the  young 
man  for  a  woman,  divorced,  wilful,  passionate  and 
fickle.  The  young  fellow  himself  is  a  nameless  child, 
and  leaving  his  grandfather's  home  nearly  kills  the  old 
man.  In  the  meantime,  the  woman  in  the  case  falls  in 
love  herself  with  the  young  man's  friend,  a  preacher, 
and  in  this  as  in  all  else  has  her  way.  This  is  the  talc, 
but  the  charm  of  it  lies  wholly  in  the  telling;  it  is 
Barric  and  Texas,  soft  Southern  dialect  and  fierce 
Southern  temperaments,  all  togetlier."  —Boston  Globe. 

"...  gives  a  tenderly  sympathetic  revelation  of 
character  in  a  country  doctor's  narration  of  the  life 
story  of  his  young  protege,  Robert  March.  He  is  one 
who  conquers  the  misfortunes  of  base  birth,  neglect 
and  poverty,  whose  religious  faith  is  almost  shattered 
through  the  fickleness  of  a  woman,  but  who  overcomes 
and  becomes  altogether  worthy  and  exalted  in  char- 
acter."— Chicago  Daily  News, 

"A  Tind !'  A  Strong  Story  by  a  New  Writer." 
'T  knew  nothing  of  Hattie  Donovan  Bohannon  until 
I  saw  her  story  called  The  Light  of  Stars.'  But  I 
want  to  say  that  she  is  a  woman  who  can  write.  She 
creates  that  elusive  thing  called  atmosphere,  the  quality 
that  hovers  around  tlie  work  of  the  strange  Bronte 
sisters,  the  quality  that  vibrates  in  the  tales  of  Harriet 
Prescott  SpofFord.  It  has  that  quality  of  imaginative 
sjmpathy  that  completes  the  electric  circuit  between  the 
reader  and  the  people  of  the  printed  page.  .  .  .  Miss 
Bohannon,  please  pass  us  down  another  book." 

— Edwin  Markhan  in  New  York  American. 


"Shrine  of  Silence" 

By  HENRY  FRANK 


John  Burroughs  says :  "  I  find  in  the  several  chapters  of  this  work, 
which  I  have  just  read  on  its  receipt,  unmistakable  evidence  of  the  foot- 
prints  of  the  Spirit.     I  shall  follow  it  further  by  and  by." 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  says :  "  This  is  a  beautiful,  interesting  and 
most  helpful  work." 

Elbert  Hubbard  says :  "  It  is  a  charming  book,  and  goes  straight  at 
the  heart  of  things  in  a  way  that  is  worth  while." 

SUNDAY  PRESS  (Albany,  N.  Y.):  "A  remarkable  work.  While 
spiritual  and  philosophical,  it  possesses  a  charm  that  makes  it  as  read- 
able and  interesting  as  a  romance." 

THE  CALL  (San  Francisco,  Cal.):  "  It  is  a  book  full  of  the  spirit 
of  natural  reverence;  entirely  free  from  dogmatic  expressions.  To 
students  who  are  sufficiently  up  to  date  to  be  interested  in  Cosmic  Vibra- 
tions, the  chapter  on  that  subject  will  be  instructive." 

THE  DAILY  PICAYUNE  (New  Orleans):  "The  book  is  both  inter- 
esting and  logical.  It  appeals  at  once  to  the  Christian  heart  and  serves 
as  a  beacon  light  to  the  Freethinker  who,  drifting  from  the  shores  of 
faith,  still  yearns  for  the  some  port  of  spiritual  comfort  and  repose." 

THE  CHRISTIAN  INTELLIGENCER  (N.  Y.  City):  "The  author 
will  be  recognized  as  the  brilliant  Lecturer  of  the  Metropolitan  Indepen- 
dent Church.  We  are,  therefore,  not  surprised  to  find  that  these  pages 
abound  with  beautiful  and  poetic  thoughts. 

THE  BULLETIN  (San  Francisco,  Cah):  "  The  author  of  this  book, 
seeking  to  obliterate  the  lines  of  demarkation  between  science  and  re- 
ligion, carries  the  reader  to  the  throne  of  truth  guided  by  the  torch  of 
reason." 

THE  ARENA  (Boston,  Mass.):  "  Here  are  over  one  hundred  medi- 
tations or  soul-prayers  giving  expression  to  the  higher  aspirations. 
Many  of  them  are  deeply  thoughtful  and  characterized  by  great  beauty. 
Some  of  them,  indeed,  are  prose  poems." 

HEALTH  CULTURE  (N.  Y.):  "  Henry  Frank  is  more  than  a  great 
thinker  and  splendid  teacher.  He  is  a  poet  and  a  music  maker.  His 
book  must  appeal  to  many." 


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"The  Kingdom  of  Love" 

By  HENRY  FRANK 

From  Ibt  Leading  Popular  Economic  Monthly. 

'*  This  vork  deals  with  Love  from  the  view-point  of  the  critical  scien- 
tist, an  introspective  philosopher  and  an  imasinative  poet,  and  is,  we 
think,  the  broadest  and  most  comprehensive  study  of  the  master  dynamic 
force  of  creation  that  has  been  written.  •  *  «  Here  is  a  full-orbed 
view  of  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world."— The  Arena,  B.  O.  Flotoer, 
Editor,  Boston. 

From  the  Leading  Baptist  Weekly  of  the  West. 

** The  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  show  that  Love  is  a  cosmic  prin- 
ciple, creative,  nutritive,  and  supportive  throughout  the  universe.  It 
creates,  constructs  and  supports  life  everywhere.  It  is  variegated  in 
form  and  experience,  but  it  is  the  same  principle  in  matter,  chemistry, 
vegetation  — in  social,  ethical  and  religious  life.  The  book  is  written  in 
•n  exceedingly  sententious  style.  It  is  prose  in  form  but  poetic  in  char- 
acter. Its  figures  of  speech  are  so  abounding  and  luxuriant,  that,  like 
leaves,  they  conceal  the  fruit.  The  rhetoric  is  turgid,  fairly  foaming 
with  ornamental  aphorisms  and  pungent  epigrams."— TAc  Standard. 
Chicag:  m. 

From  the  Leading  Unitarian  Weekly  of  the  West. 

"  This  is  a  book  of  exceptional  scope,  treating  of  universal  advance- 
ment,  and,  in  its  broadest  sense,  of  the  love  principle,  in  such  a  way  as 
to  harmonize,  admirably,  modern  evolutionary  and  materialistic  tenden- 
cies, with  the  underlying  spirit  of  orthodoxy.  It  emphasizes  first  that 
Love  and  God  are  the  same  all-pervadine,  beautifying,  cosmic  principle, 
including  the  social,  mutual  affinity  and  mother  principles,  as  well  as 
the  healing  grace ;  and  next,  that  contemplation  of  life's  ideals,  along 
these  lines,  presents  practical  encouragement  to  the  pessimistic  and 
needy  toward  social  progress  and  individual  development;  and  suggests 
to  the  more  fortunate  the  cultivation  of  deeper  sympathy.  In  short,  it 
holds  that  God  and  Man  when  merged  in  the  exercise  of  Love's  beatific 
powers  are  one,  that  earth's  crowning  glory  is  the  attainment  of  high 
ideals  and  unselfish  ends,  and  thai  the '  Resurrection  *  is  but  to  rise  from 
the  delusion  of  the  senses  and  the  death-dream  to  the  light  of  the  spirit 
and  the  brighter  progression  of  eternal  lite."— Unity,  Chicago,  III. 


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easily  yielded  to)  which  affect  injuriously  the  health  of 
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the  mother  and  others  to  understand  the  physiology  of 
womanhood  and  motherhood,  the  care  of  the  infant  and 
young  girl,  and  the  detection  and  treatment  of  common 
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In  the  Shadow  of  God 

By  GUY  ARTHUR  JAMIESON 

Author  of 

-AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  YELLOW  SKV 

Etc^  Etc 

TjlHE  story  begins  in  the  West,  picturing  the 
^■^  struggle  of  a  youth  between  what  he.  thinks 
his  duty  and  a  compelling  instinct;  but  as  the 
story  progresses  the  duty  becomes  a  superstition, 
the  instinct  the  call  of  God — he  follows  it  and  in 
doing  so  finds  his  soul — rejoices  in  it  and  wins  from 
it  at  last  great  power  and  success. 

"In  the  Shadow  of  God"  is  a  novel  that  will 
appeal  to  the  thoughtful  and  discerning — the  reader 
that  appreciates  the  different,  the  original,  the  dram- 
atic, the  powerful.  It  is  a  novel  that  will  provoke 
wide-spread  criticism  and  is  sure  to  become  one  of 
the  most  talked-about  novels  of  the  year,  calling 
forth  extravagant  praise  and  denunciation,  though 
the  spirit  of  the  book  is  one  of  the  broadest  charity, 
kindliest  sympathy,  and  one  closes  it  with  a  more 
generous  fellov/  feeling  for  "all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men."  It  is  a  big  book  with  a  big  surprise— a 
big  book  with  a  big  motive,  a  big  heart  and  a  big  soul. 

IVe  do  not  Vfish  to  condemn  the  book  TDiih  extrava- 
gant praise,  but  if  it  did  not  hct)fe  the  peculiar  surprising 
merit  of  which  we  speak  v>c  could  not  thus  strongly 
commend  it  to  the  public. 

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